Rebel Columbia One Shots
by The Solar Surfer
Summary: A collection of ongoing one-shots taking place in my Rebel Columbia series, featuring other characters and bits of their lives. Not all of it is 'canon', exactly, some will be deleted scenes that I never ended up using, or include details that aren't in the main fics. Updated sporadically, usually when I get requests or find old writing. Spoilers for RC and BP.
1. fatherhood

**Summary: **_Steve Rogers and Director Fury have a talk about Rebel Columbia. _

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**fatherhood**

* * *

"You know, I expected this kind of shit from Stark," Fury said, raising a single eyebrow.

His tone was casual, almost flippant, but Steve knew better than to take it at face value. Fury tossed the newspaper across the table towards him, saying, "But no. It's the Boy Scout of America that gets his face plastered in the tabloids."

Steve glanced down at the newspaper - The New York Post. At the top of the page, the headline read: CAPTAIN AMERICA: BABYDADDY OR DEADBEAT? Beneath that was a popular image of Captain America after the Battle of New York; next to that, an image of Rebel Columbia, face hidden by her goggles. There were arrows superimposed on both images, noting the blonde hair, tall stature, and even their jawlines, as if that was all the evidence the paparazzi needed to prove paternity.

It was almost funny, in a way. Steve had never taken these kind of papers very seriously, even back in the war. He had a hard time suppressing a smirk. "And you're telling me people actually believe this sort of stuff?"

"Enough of them do, and it's becoming a problem. And your problems are also my problems." Fury said. He leaned over, jabbed a finger on Steve's face printed on the paper. "You have no idea what this really means, do you?"

Steve wasn't an idiot. He just crossed his arms, jutted his chin at the paper. "She's another super soldier. Wouldn't be the first time someone tried to reinvent the serum." He paused, then thought to add with an edge of mocking: "Didn't SHIELD try to do that?"

"This isn't our handiwork," Fury replied flatly, looking a little peeved that Steve brought it up. SHIELD's multiple attempts at creating the next Captain America had all failed in wildly different but also consistently terrible fashions. It wasn't exactly a thing they wanted to be remembered for. "Trust me, I would know. But whoever created her - it's the real thing. We've seen what she can do, and apparently she knows it, too. I don't think the star and shield get-up is a coincidence."

"It can't be the real deal."

"Oh, it is," Fury nodded gravely. "It deflects bullets and takes no damage. Agent Thirteen even reported it blocking tankfire. That seems like the real deal to me. So, Rogers, anything you want to tell us?"

"What? About the girl?" Steve was a little stunned by the demanding tone in Fury's voice, like the Director had already decided Steve guilty. Still, he couldn't fathom why or how. "You're not seriously - I can't believe it. You actually think I'm the father."

"Not gonna lie, Rogers. This stuff doesn't just happen."

"Well, I'm not, okay?" Steve threw out his arms, standing up at the same time. He felt his ears flush with anger and resentment at being accused of this. And the embarrassment. Not just the fact that he might've been a...a father, but that he'd also hide it. "Is that good enough for you, or do you need a blood sample now?"

"Unfortunately," Fury turned his gaze to the window, clasping his hands behind his back as he observed the landscape of Washington D.C. It was a rather beautiful day to be wasted on this topic. "Columbia declined to offer any DNA samples, and what we gathered from scenes hasn't been enough to tell us what we want to know. It also doesn't help that you won't give us a sample, either."

"A fact not likely to change." Steve replied. He had made very sure to protect his privacy when he rejoined SHIELD the previous year. There were going to be no mistakes this time. He wasn't going to let anyone try to abuse the serum again.

"Be that as it may," Fury said, a little tense. "We still have to investigate. I trust you enough not to lie to me about this."

"Because I'm not."

"Are you sure?" Fury glanced at him over his shoulder.

Steve paused. "What do you mean?"

"Are you absolutely sure that there is no possibility that you could've ever fathered a child in the ninety-odd years you've been on this Earth?"

"What do you want me to say? That I dug myself out of the ice to have a kid and then went back until you guys found me later?" Steve shot back. He may be old, but his memory was as sharp as ever, and he'd be damned if he'd let something like this slip under the rug. The simple matter was this was completely illogical. Impossible, even.

"And have you ever met Rebel Columbia?"

"No."

"So until today, from the moment you woke up in last year the possibility of you having a child never occurred to you?"

"Should it have?" Steve demanded, glaring at Fury. He was getting particularly annoyed with all these questions, especially now that he was getting the feeling that Fury knew more than he was letting on. Which would be par for the course. "I don't even know her name! Do you?"

Fury opened his mouth, paused, then withdrew. He turned away from Steve, which was enough of an answer he needed. Tucking his arms behind his back, Fury walked to the window and gazed out over the DC skyline. "We're still working on building her file. But I think its safe to say that the resemblance? A little too uncanny if you ask me. How do you plan to deal with this?"

"Me?" Steve raised his eyebrows, at first defensive before understanding it was a serious, and honest question. "I don't know. Stark's given me a call, and I know I have to follow up on it… I want to see her. I do."

"Good," Fury nodded once, and only now began to look faintly pleased. "If she's anything like you, then I can already guess how much trouble she'll cause. Cut that off at the pass. See if you can get down to the bottom of this whole mystery. Paternity test or not, I gotta make sure there aren't any other super soldiers running around that I don't know about."

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**A/N: This was originally how I was going to open Bitter Protocol, a sort of Prologue like last time, but by the time I finished Rebel Columbia I had a better idea of how I wanted to start the sequel, so this scene got scrapped. It was also a bit too jarring, as we don't really return to Steve's POV for a while, and I was afraid this would make him too unsympathetic. Its ultimately not canon as I don't have the media jumping on the whole 'Captain America's a Baby-Daddy' thing going on, but I like to think that Steve and Fury had a similar conversation to this, before Steve sees Mia on his own.**


	2. first christmas

**Summary: **_Hedy takes her baby daughter home for the first time. _

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**first christmas**

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Hedy couldn't take her eyes off the tiny little bundle in her arms.

It was near midnight, warm city lights flashing past the steamed windows, hazy and oneiric. The taxi drove through slush, Silent Night by Nat King Cole playing on the radio. His soft crooning swelled with the overwhelming joy in Hedy's chest, her fingers tracing the rosy cheeks of her child. Her little soldier. Her daughter.

It had been a harrowing year. Born premature on Valentine's Day, it seemed only right that Amelia could finally come home on Christmas Eve. Months in incubation, as her tiny, frail little body struggled to breathe, struggled to pump the ounce of blood in her veins.

Hedy still remembered when Amelia had first opened her eyes — two soft grey irises meeting Hedy's. Not at all like her own brown. It had been months after Amelia was born, months Hedy hadn't been sure she would survive. Now, Amelia dozed, snoring softly.

Humming to the soft notes, Hedy rocked the swaddled child back and forth. The pink cloth glowed red and green under the passing Christmas decorations outside. A lock of blonde hair stuck out, a slight curl — Hedy smiled to herself. She kept looking for her own features in Amelia, and at first hadn't seen any. But as the weeks passed, she saw hints. Of herself, and the father.

A bitterness cooled in her gut. There was no one else waiting for them at home. No one to share this child with. Hedy closed her eyes, taking a deep, shaking breath. At twenty-three years old, she hardly felt prepared to raise a child. On her own on top of it all.

But there was nothing she could do about it now. Hedy opened her eyes. She curled the tiny lock of hair around her finger. No, she could do this. She didn't need anyone else.

Just Amelia.

She just needed Amelia.

The taxi squeaked to a stop. Getting out, Hedy stared up at the black monolith that was her home. College classes started again in a few weeks. Could she still do both? Hedy wasn't sure anymore. Amelia felt a lot more…real now.

It was a long walk up those steps. She took care not to jostle her little bundle. Amelia was still so small. Too small. She still found it hard to look away, as if Amelia might simply disappear as soon as Hedy took her eyes off her.

It was a hassle to unlock the door with bag and baby in arms, but the door finally breaking open was a relief. The apartment was entirely quiet, the neighbors fast asleep. She sighed, leaning against the door and shutting it behind her. Bag fell unceremoniously to the floor. Her little apartment was cramped, dark, with only the aluminum Christmas tree, blinking softly, to welcome her home.

And the light on the phone. Hedy remembered with a jolt the messages that Richard had left on the answering machine. He was busy, too, with Peter now. His presence, and Mary's, was a kind reminder. Maybe she wasn't entirely alone.

In her arms, Amelia shifted, cooing softly — still fast asleep, she yawned and nestled back into the cloth.

And to think, the doctors had said she hadn't stood a chance of surviving. That Hedy might've never been able to bring her home at all.

Hedy slid to the floor, a sudden burning behind her eyes. Years of exhaustion weighed on her shoulders. The uncertain future ahead that had dread coiling in her gut.

But for the moment, it abated, as the clock struck midnight. Hedy smiled softly, and whispered, "Merry Christmas, Amelia."

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**A/N: This was a request on tumblr that I did back in December 2018, trapped in an airport late at night and listening to Christmas music. Was definitely going for an atmospheric thing here.**


	3. bricks and mortar

**Summary: **_Peter needs a little patch-up after a rescue attempt gone wrong. Mia helps. Takes place between Rebel Columbia and Bitter Protocol, mild spoilers._

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**bricks and mortar**

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Amelia frowned, studying the blood and broken skin across the bridge of Peter's nose. Sitting on the edge of the sink, Amelia tilted his chin up so the light hit his face at a better angle. He flinched as she dabbed it with a cotton ball dabbed in saline. "Ow!"

"Stop fidgeting."

"I'm not fidgeting!"

"Yes, you are. Stop it!" Amelia had to grab his shoulder to keep him from moving any further away from him. "If you didn't want me to look at it, you shouldn't have gotten punched in the first place. Explain to me again how you got beat up by an old lady."

Peter heaved a sigh. Beneath his yellow Midtown jacket, he wore his spidey suit — he had only arrived minutes before, looking a little more battered than usual, and smelling like old candy and hairspray. But that was nothing compared to his freely bleeding nose and the two beautiful black bruises forming under each eye, revealed when he had taken off his mask.

Amelia had hoped that it had been from stopping drug traffickers or street thugs. Instead…

"Some jerk tried to steal her purse. They were struggling for it outside the Circle K. I didn't see anyone else coming to help, so I thought I'd jump in," Peter winced again as I grazed one of his black eyes. "So, you know, I swing down there, right? But by the time I do, I realize the guy's already given up trying to steal the purse — he's on the ground and she's just beating him with it, screaming at him in Portugeuse. I tried to get her to stop, grab her bag, but instead, she hits _me!"_

To emphasize the point, he jabbed both hands at his injuries. "Right in the face! Turns out, her purse is filled with bricks! I had to find that one out first hand. The gas station manager had to call the police on her before she killed us both!"

Amelia just stared at him, utterly baffled. "So in trying to help an innocent, you ended up saving the thief, and got your ass handed to you by an old lady."

"They're not as harmless as they look! _Bricks_, Mia!"

That made her laugh, shaking her head. "Peter, this is, by far, the dumbest thing you've ever done."

Peter attempted to roll his eyes, but winced again when the effort proved to be more painful than it was worth. He just sighed, slumping back against the mirror and lifting the ice pack she'd gotten him to his forehead. "Not nearly as dumb as the time I sent a candy gram to Liz Allen, back in ninth grade."

Amelia threw him a skeptical look. "How is that dumber?"

"Because the candy gram was Ned."

"Oh," Amelia raised her eyebrows. "Not gonna lie, I'm glad I missed that one."

Peter laughed, soft and wheezing, then made a face. "Ow. I think she cracked a couple ribs, too."

He turned to examine his reflection in the mirror, then back to Amelia with a lopsided, hopeful grin. "You think Aunt May will notice?"

"What? Nooo," She didn't have the heart to tell him the inevitable. She smiled back, forced and weak. "You're...fine. Totally fine."

"Well, at least I'm smarter than I look, right?" Peter said, so naively reassured. When Amelia failed to respond, however, his brow furrowed. "Right, Mia?"

Amelia didn't answer. Instead, she panicked, and dabbed his nose again with the cotton ball. Peter yelped, and quickly forgot the question.

They'd be lucky if only one of them got grounded tonight.

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**A/N: Based on a prompt given by iceandwaterfairytail on tumblr. "That is, by far, the dumbest thing you've ever done?" So I wrote some fluff? I guess that's what you call it lmao. **


	4. ghost stories

**Summary: **_Steve looks for more information on the Winter Soldier. Coincides with Chapter 10 of Bitter Protocol, so beware of spoilers._****

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**ghost stories**

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"Hey, Romanov," Steve began, his tone casual. "Have you heard of anyone called the Winter Soldier?"

The two of them stood in the main bay, in the rear of the quinjet. The portholes revealed only a dark night sky — right now, it'd be early afternoon in Washington D.C. The Pacific drifted by somewhere beneath them. Both of them were dressed in dark suits; Natasha in her usual black, coupled with her widow's bite gauntlets; Steve himself was wearing a dark blue/grey version of his usual uniform, sans the bright red and white that might be a little distracting while entering a stealth operation.

Behind them milled the STRIKE team, muttering amongst themselves. Steve glanced over his shoulder to make sure they wouldn't be overheard, before turning back to Natasha for her answer.

"...Sure." She cut him an odd look, adjusting her glove straps. "How did you hear about that name?"

"So he exists?" Steve asked, a little too quickly.

He had tried to go for something light-hearted, completely nonchalant, but he knew he had killed any sort of facade as soon as those words left his mouth.

Natasha's lips curled into a smirk. "In a manner of speaking. Most of the intelligence community doesn't believe he exists. The ones that do think he's a myth. He's credited with over two dozen assassinations in the last _fifty_ years. At best, it's a legacy codename, used by different agents to cover their tracks. Where did you hear about him?"

_Old news. _Steve knew this already, from the trembling and broken words Amelia had traded with him earlier that morning. Steve still felt terrible for leaving her behind in that state, but he was determined to make it up to her.

Namely, by getting to the bottom of this Winter Soldier business.

And pray that what she said about Bucky wasn't true.

But he couldn't tell Natasha any of that. To be honest, a part of him still felt he couldn't quite trust her. Not with everything, at least. Mia was too personal, and to be honest he felt protective of her, and knew that if she found out he told SHIELD, she might not forgive him. Steve didn't forget that her first (and supposedly last) encounter with the agency had interesting results.

Needless to say, Amelia was not a fan. And Steve needed her trust, needed to keep it. Not just because he wanted to learn more, but for the simple fact that she was important to him.

He wasn't happy with this course, and he _did_ want to tell Nat — but not when they were in the presence of a STRIKE team, not when they were aboard one of SHIELD's airships. Steve decided that if, and when, he let Natasha in on everything, it would be on safer ground.

So Steve lied with an easy smile. "Oh, just heard some newbies talking about it and got curious."

"Hm," Natasha pressed her lips together in a return smile that didn't reach her eyes. "It's just something they teach the youngblood so they have a healthy fear of the unknown. Our greatest threat is never knowing what we don't know."

It was a fair point. Steve held the notion that SHIELD was overconfident in its apparent omniscience. "So SHIELD doesn't know anything about him?"

Natasha blinked. "Your relentless curiosity never ceases to amaze me, Rogers."

He just shrugged. "What can I say? I think it's… intriguing."

"Right," Natasha smirked again, leaning back against the wall and folding her arms. She cocked an eyebrow. "Well, since you asked… the Winter Soldier's a ghost. All we can say for sure is that it's male, Soviet in origin. And even that's just a guess. The deaths attributed to him — or them — have largely been to America's detriment, or to Russia's gain. As you can guess, it's probably not a coincidence. Some deaths are just mysterious. Some come back with bullets with no rifling. I've heard stories of tall, dark-haired men that might've been him, lurking on a rooftop or grassy knoll… there's been some wild theories, though. That he's a god, or a spirit you can summon. An immortal killer with unknown allegiances. Hell, even an alien out to exterminate the human race."

"I heard he had a metal arm, too."

Natasha blinked. "That's not in any file."

His smile froze. Dammit. Steve knew he was pushing too hard. But he didn't know who else to ask. What was he supposed to say, that he heard it from his traumatized kid in the middle of a panic attack? _Just another day in the life of Captain America._

"Like you said," Steve tried to play it off. "Wild rumors."

Natasha just chuckled, shaking her head to herself, but something had changed. It was almost imperceptible, but Steve was starting to pick up on her tics. On a trained spy they were hard to find, but a trained spy was never supposed to know someone as long as they'd known each other. "So, do anything fun on Saturday nights?"

Steve cast her a wan smile, but didn't bite. Firstly, they both knew the answer to that — which was no. Steve didn't have much of a social life. Secondly, they _both_ knew what Natasha was trying to do. Changing the subject.

He had grown wise to when her shoulders were tense, or when her eyes narrowed just a fraction. Nostrils flaring, fingers tightening in a slow fist, before releasing again.

Did she already know about the metal arm? How? If it wasn't in any file...

Steve had known that, too. In fact, when he tried to access the said file, all he got was half-a-page's worth of conspiracy and speculation.

But nothing about a metal arm.

Which left one possible conclusion.

Natasha had seen the Winter Soldier for herself.

Which meant Mia was right. The Winter Soldier was real. A cold chill flowed through his veins.

But why would Natasha keep it a secret? It felt like a stupid question, but if she had run into him after she became a SHIELD agent, why wasn't there a record of it?

What was she hiding? What did she know?

He'd seen the fear in Amelia's eyes. That whatever she saw was no ghost. That a metal-armed assassin was out there, somewhere still. A man, a killer with Bucky's face.

That revelation had sent Steve reeling — he'd only barely managed to hide it in front of Mia, worried it'd make her more upset. A part of him was horrified at the concept that Bucky had been turned into this… _thing_, this monster. Steve was almost too afraid to believe it. Nothing she described could be attributed to the man Steve had known since childhood, his best friend who used to forgo meals so his younger siblings could eat. Hell, so _Steve_ could eat, sometimes.

And that was everything besides the sheer logistics. It just couldn't be possible. No man would have survived that fall from the train, in the dead of winter, in hostile territory.

Steve frowned to himself, a line creasing his brow. _But a super soldier might_…

"Hey, Cap, you doin' alright?" Rumlow appeared at his side, throwing Steve a curious look. He had a parachute strapped to his back, rifle hanging across his chest. "Looking a little green around the gills there. Hope you don't get seasick."

"Its nothing," Steve replied, smoothing his features for a smile. "Just hoping we can get all those agents off the _Lemurian Star_ in one piece."

Rumlow just grinned. "Eye on the ball as always, Cap."

Above them, red lights began to flash, right before the bay doors opened beneath them. Far below was the endless black expanse of ocean — and in the center, the glittering lights of a single ship, adrift in the waters.

As Steve kicked his senses into gear, slipping his helmet on, he couldn't shake the insidious thought creeping through his mind.

Was Bucky _alive_?

He didn't want to believe it. It was easier not to believe. Denial was a tempting notion, but Steve had long since come to terms with the fact that his best friend was dead.

Or so he thought.

The dread he felt was palpable.

But so was the _hope_.

And it scared him.

Taking a deep breath, Steve steeled his nerves. Then, with one last casual remark over his shoulder, he jumped out of the quinjet.

No parachute and all.

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

The catwalk felt miniscule in the presence of the helicarriers before him. Steve felt a mixture of awe and trepidation, perhaps even horror, looking upon them. He couldn't help but think that technology of this magnitude would fit in perfectly in the utopian-dystopian worlds of George Orwell.

He kept pace with Nick Fury as they walked the perimeter of one very long wall in the massive hangar. Steve couldn't tear his eyes away from the huge metal behemoths. They had to be right under the Potomac, he thought to himself. 30 million square feet of water rushing over their heads. The din of construction hid whatever noise the river might have made, but Steve was highly aware of the silent threat that hovered above. One mistake, and Fury's magnum opus would be swallowed up like the lost city of Atlantis.

"...Rogers? Rogers?" Fury's voice brought Steve back to the present. The older man made a sound of annoyance. "Were you listening to a thing I've said?"

"Sorry," Steve bowed his head, sincere. He may not like this Project Insight, but he still respected Director Fury and the kind of person he had to be to get that position. "I was just, er, thinking."

Fury just scoffed, but it was surprisingly good-natured, and shook his head to himself. "Of course. I shouldn't have bothered to ask —"  
"Have you heard of the Winter Soldier?" Steve couldn't help himself. Cutting Fury off in mid-sentence, the question just flew from his lips before Steve could really think through the consequences of this. Natasha was one thing. But Fury…?

The aftermath of the _Lemurian Star_ told Steve that he had underestimated Natasha, and knew much less than he thought he did about her. Or about SHIELD, which was why Fury was now down here, showing him their latest infringement on American rights. Not even Americans — the whole world, truly.

But even in light of all this, Steve knew that if anyone could give him an answer, it would be Fury. Maybe he'd say what mission Natasha had been on that would've gotten her in the Winter Soldier's crosshairs. Maybe he knew why she wouldn't talk about it.

Maybe he could discern whether her true allegiance lay with SHIELD, or her fellow Avengers. It seemed every new thing that happened in SHIELD gave Steve another reason not to trust them or anyone involved.

Nick Fury stopped in his tracks. His expression was suddenly impenetrable. "The Winter Soldier doesn't exist."

Steve came to a stop as well, facing him. "That was fast."

It was almost as if Fury had been expecting the question. He didn't appear confused or caught off guard. That just made Steve all the more suspicious.

Fury tilted his bald head, not falling for the sarcastic bait. "I don't play games with every rumor and conspiracy theory that knocks on my door, Rogers. SHIELD deals with threats it can manage, actionable intelligence. What SHIELD has on the Winter Soldier is all that's known about him. Anywhere."

"You've been monitoring my search history?" Steve demanded, but at once it made sense. It explained Fury's coolness, the unruffled attitude.

"And I know what Romanov told you when you asked her the same question," Fury said without hesitation. Of course he wasn't above spying on his own people, either. Was no one safe from SHIELD's penetrating gaze? "Those accredited kills she mentioned? Were just as easily held accountable to someone else, someone with an actual name and face. There was no man on the grassy knoll."

Steve struggled to rein in the retort he has on his mind. Just because this conversation wasn't going the way he wanted it to didn't mean he had to show his entire hand. So, keeping his expression impassive, Steve inhaled deeply from his nose, and didn't say a thing.

"So, Cap," Fury continued, shifting his weight so his feet stood shoulder-width apart, back straight and looking Steve straight in the eye. "Who are you going to ask next? Barton? Rumlow? My secretary? Why are you so caught up on this Winter Soldier?"

"What, you mean you don't know that answer already?" it was a jab at Fury's surveillance issues, and Project Insight. And a deflection from giving the truth.

Fury wasn't so easily thrown off course. "I want to make sure this isn't becoming a problem. I want you focused on the present, Rogers. Where did you even hear that name, anyways?"

Steve opened his mouth to answer, then stopped. _He's fishing_, Steve realized. _Fury doesn't know. _

For once, Fury didn't know something. Steve almost smiled.

It meant Fury didn't know Mia had told Steve. Possibly, he didn't know what Mia knew. While Fury had never said anything about her, Steve had a feeling SHIELD might be monitoring her. If they were, then she still managed to slip through the cracks from time to time.

_Our greatest threat is never knowing what we don't know._

Good.

If Fury didn't know where Steve heard it, then it meant that the Winter Soldier wasn't as common a rumor as he thought. And if Fury was trying to hard to find out, then it meant that Fury thought the Winter Soldier a greater threat than he was letting on.

"Oh, you know," Steve replied with the same ease Fury had used on him earlier, and turned away. "Just rumors and conspiracy theories."

He could feel Fury's gaze burning a hole into his back as he walked away.

* * *

**A/N: I kind of wanted to put this in the fic itself, but until I can think of a more seamless way to switch POV its going here for the moment xD**


	5. responsibility

**Summary: **_Benjamin Parker goes looking for his wayward nephew after a bad fight. Takes place sometime between Chapter 7 and Chapter 8 of Rebel Columbia._

* * *

**responsibility**

* * *

Cold March rain pattered against the windshield, wipers sliding back and forth in a slow, thumping rhythm. The only light in the 1994 Toyota Corolla was the dashboard, the Nokia's screen, and the red light glaring overhead.

Benjamin Parker sighed, finger tapping his steering wheel as he waited for the light to change.

Hedy heard it over the phone. "_I'm sure Peter's fine, Ben. He's only fourteen, how much trouble is he going to get into_?"

"He's been getting into fights at school. His new school! He's been moody for weeks now," Ben replied, unable to hide his disbelief. The school Peter had worked so hard to get into, and was now on suspension for breaking another boy's nose. Ben could only guess as to the reason for it, but he had a pretty good idea. "Well, he's been moody for a while. Ever since…"

He couldn't finish. Hedy didn't speak for a long moment.

"I know," she murmured.

Ben closed his eyes in a wince, then remembered what he was doing, and they flew open again. "Just let me know if you spot him, okay?"

"Of course," she said. "Good luck, Ben. Let me know how it goes."

"Right."

The drive went on in silence. Ben was grateful for Hedy's solidarity, but he thought better when he was alone, and he didn't want to burden his sister further. He couldn't bear the thought of having to call with more bad news.

The Parkers had already lost enough.

All the while, Ben couldn't help but mentally kick himself. It was his fault Peter had run out of the apartment like that. If Ben had only been softer, been quieter, had just _listened_… maybe he wouldn't be out searching for Peter in the middle of the night.

Ben knew his nephew. He knew Peter was a brilliant, _brilliant_ boy. He was special, he had greatness in him. That's what all parents said about their kids, but Ben was sure about this; he was more sure than anything else. Ben also knew, that as smart as Peter was, he didn't have much common sense.

It was probably for that reason that Ben would find Peter in a gas station convenience store, in the bad part of town.

All it took was one lucky glimpse of that red hoodie and mussed hair through the glass door. Ben slammed the brakes so suddenly, in the middle of the road, that he nearly caused a collision with the car that was cruising behind him. Giving a wincing, apologetic wave to the other driver, Ben quickly turned off the road and pulled in by one of the pumps. Aside from his car, the place was completely empty.

The door jingled softly as Ben entered; the cashier didn't look up from his TV from his perch behind the counter.

Peter, who seemed to be lost in thought in the chips aisle, did not notice Ben when he approached. It wasn't until Ben finally spoke — "There you are!" — did the boy jump, almost right out of his socks. He spun around, staring at Ben wide-eyed for a moment, face flushing with the guilt at having been caught. Then, perhaps finding his gumption, Peter scowled and turned his back on Ben, putting his attention back on the Pringles without another word.

Realizing that this was going to need a delicate touch (_God, May's so much better at this_), Ben heaved a sigh, and took a step back. He showed his palms as a sign of no hostility. "I'm sorry, Peter, I didn't mean to startle you."

No response from Peter. He looked like a drowned rat, his clothes completely soaked. His hair dripped, too, water droplets hanging to the edge of curling hair. He was shivering slightly, but his jaw was set, mouth pressed into a thin line. Trying to suffer through it without complaint.

Without asking, Ben pulled off his coat, and placed it over Peter's shoulders. Peter just shrugged it off.

Ben stared at his coat on the floor for a moment, before picking it up again. He didn't put it back on. "I'm sorry, Peter. I shouldn't have yelled at you back home. I let the conversation get heated and didn't think of how you were feeling."

Peter didn't move.  
Ben sighed. There was no beating around the bush this time around. "Please talk to me, Pete. I know something else is going on. Not just the fight at school. Did something happen to you, something you never told us about?"

Nothing.

Ben didn't know what else to do. Giving up was not in his nature, but Pete could be just as stubborn as him. Just that bit of Parker in the both of them. But surrender might be his only choice. "Alright, Pete. We don't have to talk. But I'd like you to come home with me. May's losing her mind with worry; she's this close to calling the police."

Peter shivered; maybe a wince, or maybe he was just cold. When Ben lifted the coat again, Peter quickly side-stepped away. He kept his head turned, so Ben couldn't read his face. But his words were mumbled, resentful, when he finally spoke.

"I didn't mean to do it." the words were barely more than a whisper. "Flash just made me… so mad."

Ben nodded quietly. He knew all about Flash Thompson, Peter's nemesis. The kid wasn't much more than a punk, and by all rights the two were more or less evenly matched. But Thompson was from a very well-to-do family, and wasn't afraid of flaunting it. Peter never made a lot of beef about that aspect of Flash's character, but he always wondered if Flash's privileged upbringing ever made Peter feel somehow lesser.

Unfortunately, Ben had never figured out a tactful way to ask. There was a good chance he'd phrase it wrong, make Peter feel even worse; but Ben just wanted him to know that there was no shame in being working class. Hell, there was no shame in being _poor_. The Parkers were the kind of family who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps. They took pride in the dirt under their nails, for every dollar they earned. The sweat on their brow belonged to no one but themselves.

Most of all, Parkers looked out for each other. They were never alone. Ben for Hedy, Hedy for Ben, and Ben for Peter.

If only he knew how to say it.

At length, Ben finally spoke. He cleared his throat, glancing away so Peter wouldn't feel accused. "I've noticed, a little bit, that you've been pretty… well, intense these past few weeks."

"I'm just so angry! All the time," It came out in a sudden burst, startling Ben. Strained words in a broken voice. Peter rubbed at his eyes; his face had dried, so it wasn't rainwater slipping down his cheeks. He sniffed and choked words followed. "I-it never goes away. Nothing I do makes it better. Nothing except —"

" — Taking it out on someone?" Ben finished skeptically. Peter hung his head in shame, slumping against the rack, back still turned.

"He made me do it," Peter mumbled, dragging his sleeve under his nose. "He was asking for it."

"He didn't make you do anything, Pete," Ben admonished sternly. That was an excuse that would never fly under his roof. "Punching him was a choice. _Your_ choice. You can't control Flash, Peter. The only thing you can control is your reaction."

"Are you quoting someone again?" Peter asked, sounding annoyed.

He probably was, but Ben couldn't be assed to remember who it was.

"It doesn't matter. You can't keep doing this, Peter." Ben said quietly, so the cashier wouldn't overhear the conversation. He leaned against the shelving, looking down at his nephew, hoping Peter would deign to meet his gaze. "I know it's not easy, but you've already worked so hard for this. Don't throw it all away because some minor league bully thinks they've got something on you. You gotta remember, with —"

"No power without responsibility, I know," Peter groaned, his head falling back in deep aggravation. His eyes were squeezed shut. "You say it all the time."

"That version's little paraphrased," Ben made a face, then shrugged, conceding. "But sure. Can we both agree, at least, that what you did was wrong?"

Peter glowered at the shelf in front of him. After a long moment, he muttered with great reluctance. "Yes."

Ben relaxed a little. Finally, they were getting somewhere. "If you could go back, what would you have done differently?"

"I guess…" Peter make a face. "_Not_ breaking Flash's nose."

Had he not been in parenting mode, Ben might've let himself laugh. As it was, he struggled to hide a smile, glad for the darkness, before shaking his head. "Try again, Pete."

Peter sighed, his shoulders drooping, and he screwed up his lips as he gave it actual thought this time. "I would've… walked away, I guess. But… but he was picking on this other kid, Ben! This sick little kid who would've been completely defenseless if I left!"

Ben furrowed his brow. This was starting to sound awfully familiar. "...Ah."

They never talked about what happened last year. Not really, not in any complete way. Ben knew Peter was hurting — _still_ hurting. It wasn't a kind of hurt that you could fix with a band-aid or a good joke. It had to mend on its own. But Ben was no stranger to loss. He knew that sometimes, wounds never healed. Never fully. And his heart ached to think that Peter might never recover from this.

But that still wasn't an excuse to be punching other kids.

"I bet it gets pretty overwhelming, huh," Ben said, trying once more to put the coat around Peter's shoulders. Peter frowned for a moment, appearing to consider removing it again, but this time remained still. Stiff as a board, sure, but at least looking a little warmer. "Being so angry all the time, you start to feel helpless. Like there's nothing you can do. And so you do anything to change it."

Peter scowled at the floor. He hugged himself with his arms, and shrugged. "I guess."

"And I bet punching Flash felt pretty good."

"Yeah," Peter smirked slightly, but it melted away in the next instant. "Then I felt bad. And my hand started to hurt."

That was almost a relief to hear. Peter still had his conscience. Ben studied the bandage across Peter's knuckles on his right hand; May had done that, when they had first gotten home. "If you knew it was wrong, why were you so angry when we talked about it?"

"Because I got in trouble, and Flash got _nothing_!" Peter spoke in a hushed rant, gesturing manically with his hands. "He's been picking on this kid for months now, but _I'm_ the one suspended for finally sticking up to him. It's not fair!"

"Life isn't fair, sometimes," Ben replied. He probably should've said _all the time_. Judging by the look on Peter's face, that response wasn't very helpful. Of course, Peter was already well-aware that life wasn't fair. Flash had always been the perfect indicator for that, even before this incident.

So Ben added, "Maybe that kid didn't need a hero, Pete. Maybe he just needed a friend."

Peter furrowed his brow, rolling his bottom lip under his teeth. He worried at it for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Pfft, doesn't matter anyways," He kicked at the floor. "Ned told me the other kid's parents are pulling him out of Midtown."

Ben folded his arms. "So it was all for nothing."

A dark look crossed Peter's face. He didn't speak.

Sighing again, Ben ran a hand through his hair. Progress had been made, but he wasn't sure how much. "You weren't in the wrong, Peter. What you did was brave. But your method wasn't right. Lashing out, even for a good cause, isn't going to work. If you have the chance to do something, to do the right thing, that no one else is willing or capable of doing, doesn't entitle you to react however you want. You're smart enough to know when you have power; you just need to understand how to use it well, Pete."

He finished this, placing a hand on Peter's shoulder and giving him an encouraging squeeze.

"You don't get it, Ben," Peter said quietly. "It's not just about Flash. It's more than that. It's… it's about me."

Ben frowned, slightly baffled. "What do you mean?"

Peter had gone very still; panic flashed across his face, before it was gone again. Peter hunched up his shoulders, and shook his head. "...Never mind. Forget it." He pushed past Ben, walking out of the aisle and towards the exit.

"No, Peter, wait," Ben called after him, growing more bewildered. He had a sneaking suspicion there was something else behind all of this, but until now he had no actual proof. Now curiosity, _concern_, clawed at him. Something was wrong with Peter, that wasn't just about Flash or last year, or anything Ben knew about. "Just wait a moment —"

He stepped out of the aisle just as Peter was approaching the door. But the boy was suddenly knocked back, caught by surprise, when someone else entered.

A man in a dark coat, soaked with rain. A hat pulled low over his eyes. He didn't even glance at Peter, who recoiled at the impact, stumbling back until he bumped into Ben. The man fixed his gaze first on the cashier, then on Ben. A shiver went down his spine as his eyes connected to a dark, cold gaze.

The man tilted his head. "Is that your car out there, sir?"

In his hand, a gun.

* * *

**A/N: Based on the prompt "You can't keep doing this." that I got from fantasiame on tumblr (:**

**I guess you could call this my headcanon of how Ben died in the MCU-verse. It's why I left mention of non-canon/OC characters to a minimum, as I wanted to emphasize Ben's character and his relationship to Peter, and how/why he's the crux to Peter taking on the mantle of Spider-Man. As for the "cliffhanger" more or less, I didn't want to retread old ground with Ben's murder and Peter's reaction to it; its covered in Rebel Columbia, and I didn't want it to get redundant, or dragged out.**

**Also, Ben just didn't get as much love as I wanted him to in my fic, so this is me making up for it lol.**


	6. the woods

**Summary: **_Wanda and Pietro spare a few moments to grieve. Takes place directly before the events of Chapter 8 in Rebel Columbia._

* * *

**the woods**

* * *

"_Oh, nothing. I just never heard you laugh before."_

Wanda tittered next to him. "It sounds weird."

Amelia had laughed, that same strange, bright, slightly rasping sound. There was ash all over her face. No doubt they, too, were filthy. "Wow, I don't think I've actually laughed in two years. Isn't it amazing! We're free! And they said nobody ever leaves the Crucible alive."

"I don't care what they said," Pietro crowed with wild, irreverent abandon, and threw his arms up in the air. "It doesn't mean shit! Ha!"

With that, he spun around, taking Wanda with him. She shrieked with joy as he whirled around, lifting her up off her feet so she swung around in the air as he spun in place — just like they used to do when they were kids, playing in the yard and roughhousing when they had nothing better to do. Their mother had never liked it, but their father had always laughed at their antics, seeing it as nothing more than innocent fun.

"Put me down!" Wanda called, even as she hiccuped with laughter. Pietro just spun her faster, laughing maniacally.

How far away their childhood seemed now, Pietro thought to himself. For the first time ever, he finally felt like a _boy_ again.

"What do you think, Amelia?" he called, still spinning. Amelia was little more than a pale blur in the wintry woods as the twins went around and around. "Should I let her go?"

"Yes!" Wanda shouted.  
"No!" Amelia said. "If you let her go now, she'll go flying!"

"No!" And just like that, Wanda changed her tune. "Don't let me go!"

"Alright!" Pietro said with a terrible grin. He didn't slow down. "Letting go!"

"Pietro, don't you dare!" Wanda cried, her grip on his arms tightening as his loosened. "_No, no, no _— !"

With a whoop, he tossed her up. Wanda shrieked again, limbs flailing as she flew in a high arc, before dropping into a huge, powdery drift. A plume of snow exploded upon landing.

Laughing, Pietro ran over to her, as Wanda surged out of the snow, face red and furious. But her anger quickly abated, even as Amelia was cackling, clutching her stomach. "Oh, very funny, laugh it up —"

The gunshots came out of nowhere.

One second, they were laughing, cheering, dancing with glee.

The next, Amelia had collapsed, smile still printed on her face.

Wanda screamed. It shot through the air, through his head. Pain followed as Wanda's horror filtered into him.

"_No, no, no, no —!_"

Pietro acted instinctively. Muscles kicking into high gear, his blood quickened and her fall slowed. He was at her side in an instant, catching Amelia before she could hit the ground. As soon as his hands touched her back, they were covered in blood.

"Amelia, can you hear me?" He said, but Amelia could only stare up at him in shock. As if she couldn't quite understand what was happening. Pietro could barely understand himself; his words were a frantic jumble as he dropped to his knees, still clutching onto her. "Please stay with me! Don't give up, you're going to be fine —"

He looked up at the offender, teeth gritted. A _Vulkan,_ gun in his hand. Pietro didn't remember his name. Didn't want to. The man leveled the gun towards Pietro. Before either could do anything, red energy struck the man in the chest.

_Through_ him.

Red hot, burning plasma ripping a hole in the _Vulkan's_ chest. The impact sent him flying. When he landed, far away, he did not get back up again.

In the back of Pietro's mind, he was reeling. He knew his sister was powerful — stronger than him, at least. But he had no idea she could do _that_.

At the moment, however, he couldn't ponder on it. Right now, their friend was dying in his arms.

Her eyes had already started turning glassy, her face pale and draining. Her breath came out in sharp, quick gasps. Eyes wide, flicking back and forth in a panic, trembling hand gripping the front of his shirt. He did not need Wanda's ability to know how Amelia felt in that moment.

Fear.

Already, her grip was weakening, breathing turning shallow. He held onto her, cold skin turning colder, not knowing what to do.

A lump formed in his throat; Pietro had never felt so useless. He didn't know what to do. Crunching footsteps, fast, and Wanda was next to him, hand on his shoulder. Ever the older brother, Pietro had never once put her on the spot, never once wanted to burden her with a terrible responsibility.

But for the first time, he found himself looking at his sister, completely helpless. "Save her."

Wanda's eyes were wide, glittering with tears. Her lips were pressed so tightly together they had turned as white as the snow around him. The first time he turned to her for help, and she could only shake her head. As helpless as he was.

Her gaze turned towards Amelia, whose eyes had started to flutter deliriously. Her grip had come loose from his shirt, but he grabbed her hand, holding onto it for her.

Wanda's voice was broken. She could see what Pietro couldn't. "I can make it go away. So it doesn't hurt anymore."

It took Pietro a moment to realize she wasn't talking to him, but to Amelia. There was no indication that Amelia had heard either of them. Wanda reached out, took Amelia's hand that Pietro was holding.

Something seemed to click. Amelia blinked once. Her eyes refocused.

A single word. "_Go_."

An understanding. An agreement. Wanda nodded once, and pressed her hand to Amelia's forehead. Her fingers flickered red, crackled over Amelia's face. Her pupils turned to pinpricks.

Pietro watched as Amelia's eyes closed. Opened again.

Blank.

"You're going to be okay," he whispered, an awful lie. His hand trembled as he tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

Her hand went limp in his.

Eyes open but unseeing.

It was a long moment before Pietro could move. At first, he refused to believe it. Freedom had been too close, so close on their tongues, for it to be taken away. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. They agreed to escape together, to get out alive as one. Either they lived free, or died fighting. Never to be a slave, a puppet, a weapon ever again.

A promise broken.

As he set her down, lying in the snow, his hand pulled back slick with blood. So warm. He was shaking, but it had nothing to do with the cold.

"Pietro," Wanda's hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. "We have to go. Come."

But he didn't move. He couldn't. He refused.

Pietro knew the danger. Amelia hadn't told them to go for nothing; they were still too close to the Crucible. The _Vulkan_ would gather again and give chase once more. Leaving now would simply be pragmatic. It was survival.

But Pietro did not care for survival in that moment.

He couldn't bear the thought of leaving her behind.

Not after all that they had gone through.

Perhaps Wanda sensed his conviction, or perhaps had direct insight into what he was thinking, because she did not push him again. For a moment, Pietro thought she would simply run off without him, get a head-start. It wouldn't be unreasonable — he could always catch up later, and in much less time.

Instead, she began to sing.

Or, at least, Pietro thought it was singing. It was low at first, little more than a humming sound that began to take solid shape. It took him a moment to realize it wasn't Sokovian she was speaking. It took him a moment longer still to realize it wasn't singing, either.

"..._Yitgadal v'yitkadash sh'mei raba b'alma di v'ra chirutei," _Her words were halting, slightly stammering. The language was old and unfamiliar — words that they had not heard in many, many years. "_Baagala uviz'man kariv, v'im'ru: Amen…"_

Hearing Wanda now, however, slammed Pietro with the memory of their father speaking the same words as he lit a tall candle, on a certain day every year. Pietro had never understood the importance of the date, not until now. In that moment, Pietro felt a terrible guilt at not having remembered the words as Wanda had — still, he recalled how his father once told him, the meaning of the words. The Mourner's Kaddish. A prayer for the deceased, a loved one, a family member.

"_Y'hei sh'mei raba m'varach l'alam ul'almei almaya…" _He wondered if Wanda knew the meaning of the words. He did not, although he had, once. A few sounded familiar, and he could almost recall the translation, but in that moment, his own grief made it too difficult to think on it for very long.

"_Yitbarach v'yishtabach v'yitpaar v'yitromam v'yitnasei…"_

Pushing aside his guilt for a moment, he simply listened as Wanda spoke. Her words were choked, but he wasn't wrong in mistaking it for a song; although it was unpracticed, Wanda recited the prayer with a kind of lyricism that made it almost sound like a lullaby, so much like the kind their parents used to sing to them.

When he looked up, he was surprised to see that Wanda was holding something in her other hand. A simple gold necklace.

A familiar one.

It was the locket she had from their father. The one with their grandparents photos within, black and white, ancient and tiny. Pietro stared at it for a moment, at the delicate chain wrapped around her fingers, the oval pendant swinging below her wrist. It was covered in scratches and a few small dents from years of wear and disuse, but to Pietro it looked incredible. He couldn't believe Wanda still managed to keep ahold of it. He thought they'd lost it years ago.

"_V'yit'hadar v'yitaleh v'yit'halal sh'mei d'kud'sha b'rich hu…" _

As Wanda continued, she reached for his hand, and Pietro took it without a word. He closed his eyes, and mouthed the words after her, wanting to do his part, and hoping that maybe, just maybe, he could remember, too.

"_L'eila min kol birchata v'shirata, tushb'chata v'nechemata, daamiran b'alma, v'imru:_ _Amen._"

A silent understanding passed between them. This was their payment of respects, not just to their friend, but to the family they had lost so long ago. Wanda and Pietro never had much of a chance to grieve their parents, much less in the traditional way. They were only children. He felt Wanda wince as she stumbled over a few more words; he squeezed her hand, letting her know she was fine. It wasn't like Pietro could judge, at any rate. Getting the words right wasn't as important to him as the meaning of the gesture.

"_Y'hei sh'lama raba min sh'maya, v'chayim aleinu v'al kol Yisrael, v'imru: Amen."_

In the back of his mind, Pietro remembered that while the purpose for the Kaddish was a sad one, the prayer itself was meant to be uplifting. He supposed that would have more of an effect on him, if he understood it. For now, at least, the prayer felt as sad and pained as he did.

"_Oseh shalom bimromav, Hu yaaseh shalom aleinu, v'al kol Yisrael, v'imru: Amen."_

"Amen," Pietro repeated, little more than a whisper. Wanda's voice echoed in the hollow of forest. It whistled quietly back, lonely and forlorn. There was no one here except for them and Amelia, whose gaze was towards the sky, open, gray and still.

Pietro let out a sigh, reaching over to close her eyes. He did not feel better. But he supposed he felt… calmer. Exhausted. His heart still writhed in pain and grief, fresh and raw, but the anger had abated. Pietro tried to find peace in the moment, although it was difficult. Someone was not truly dead until they were forgotten.

And he would not forget Amelia.

He did not know if there was anything besides time and, perhaps, a miracle that would ever allow him to fully overcome the totality of his experience in the Crucible. Everything before it, and what was yet to come.

Their journey was, unfortunately, not yet over.

But thanks to Amelia, they were still alive to endure it.

Neither sibling spoke. At last, Pietro stood, bringing Wanda up with him. They still held hands, tight and shaking. The cold was finally starting to seep in.

As one, the Maximoff twins turned, putting the body behind him. It felt like the hardest thing Pietro had ever done. Moreso than all the fighting, the torture, anything else the Crucible had put them through. This felt almost impossible.

But they did it anyways. Together.

Pietro forced himself not to look back. To look back was to admit regret, to show doubt, and now was not the time.

Instead, he picked up his sister, and started to run.

* * *

**A/N: Based on a conversation with charmanderisacutie on tumblr about how the twins react to Mia's death. She suggested that they would recite the Mourner's Kaddish — based on the headcanon/lore that they're Jewish — which I thought was an amazing idea, so now this exists.**

**I understand that the transliteration is probably not a 100% accurate to how it's actually be spoken (I copied it from a website); I wasn't really sure how to copy the actual Hebrew text, and I didn't think it'd be as helpful to understand what it sounds like to someone (like me) who can't read it. I wanted this to be as respectful a portrayal of the prayer as I could, but please let me know if there's any improvements I can make. This is definitely not my area of expertise. **

**Also used a prompt ("I don't care what they said, it doesn't mean shit!"**) **from fantasiame on tumblr to help kickstart this one shot. **


	7. Incandescent Part One

**Author's Note: First draft version of some scenes early in Rebel Columbia. This version of Peter was Andrew Garfield's from Amazing Spider-Man, and had been a crossover with Avengers. Here are the scenes that I removed from the original draft, that established Mia's and Garfield!Peter's relationship. (These are no longer canon).**

**This and Part Two contains all the scenes of them together.**

* * *

**Incandescent Part One**

* * *

_Fwap!_

My books tumbled to the floor, a mess of open binders and bent papers. My hands hung in the air, and I came to a sudden stop, too shocked to move.

Sharp, piercing laughter burst in my ear. I didn't look around, didn't have to. I already knew who it was. "Oh, no! What happened, Mia?"

I kept my gaze down. There was a swirl of legs around me, skirts and leggings and expensive jeans, all bright colors. Flip-flops and new sneakers to match the weather. I saw hands on hips, covered in bangles, in sweatbands and rubber bracelets, fingers adorned with pretty rings. Skin tanned and perfect, nails in matching shades.

Astor Sloane and her posse, Tracy, Simone, and Devon. The A-Team.

"Well, aren't you going to pick it up?" Astor asked, her voice too sweet. She stood directly in front of me, of course – with the others flanking her and taking up the entirety of my field of vision. I couldn't see anything beyond them, nothing over their shoulders. To my left was the hall, to my right the lockers. I didn't have anywhere to go, not without leaving my books there.

"Come on, clean up your mess," Simone said, pointing at the floor. Her nails were the longest of the four, manicured and tough as rocks. She liked to smack boys with them, leave marks after they've scorned her. "Don't be a slob!"

Tracy snickered. She was Astor's second-in-command, both on the field and off. When Astor wasn't around, she took charge. "I think that ship sailed as soon as she decided to put on that fugly sweater. Where'd you get it, Mia? The dumpster behind your apartment?"

"No," I mumbled, my hands retreating into the too-large sleeves. "It's my mom's."

"What?" Devon leaned in, hand at her ear. She spoke obnoxiously loud, over-enunciating like I was too slow to understand. "Sorry, I didn't catch that! You have to speak a little louder!"

"It's m-my..." I stumbled over my words, unable to finish my sentence. Trying to raise my voice only made it worse. My tongue seemed to thicken and I couldn't get past the anxiety pounding in my head. I just wanted to run away, hide and pretend nothing ever happened. "I – I'm not..."

You're not what?" Astor demanded, pushing me in the shoulder. She was the biggest girl – not fat, but rather she was the strongest. Came with the territory, I guess. You don't get to be captain of Midtown High's field hockey team by just sitting around. "A freak? Look at you! Clothes that don't fit, mousy hair that probably hasn't been washed in a week; and you do realize that you're only supposed to buy jeans pre-destroyed, right? You're not actually supposed to do it yourself."

My gaze dropped further down, to my feet. The knees of my pants were ripped; Mom was supposed to patch them up, but she'd been busy lately and hadn't had the time. Seeing my books, I bent down to pick them up, trying to ignore the titters as the girls stepped on my homework and left dirty footprints on my textbooks.

As I drew back up, I saw a hand fly in front of my face and I flinched, closing my eyes and expecting to get slapped. Instead, the glasses were yanked off my nose, and when I opened my eyes again the world had turned into a muddled blur. "Hey, give those back!"

"Oh, now she talks!" Devon laughed. I couldn't tell which one of them was holding my glasses. They were a transparent pink color that blended too well with the hazy world around me. "What's a freak going to do when she can't even see?"

"Ha, look at me, I'm Mia!" Astor said, and I could see her arms jerking around in a false imitation of my movements. She hunched over a little, as if to somehow mimic my lack of height, putting on a nasally voice and saying, "Wearing my big ol' grandma glasses and p-planning on my f-fut-future of Queen of the G-g-geeks!"

"I d-don't s-sound like th-that!" my voice started to waver as tears threatened to breach my eyes. I knew they were just being stupid, but I couldn't help what I felt. God, why did I have to be such a crybaby? "J-just stop, please!"

"Queen of the Geeks? Ha!" Simone shook her head. "She's not _that_ special! Mia's about as interesting as old wallpaper."

I had to admit, that was a new one. No one's ever compared me to wallpaper before. I'd rather _be_ wallpaper right now than have to deal with this. "Come on, j-just give-give me back my gl-glasses!"

I made a wild grab for them, but only ended up getting shoved back. Maybe they underestimated their strength, or maybe they were deliberately being mean, because the shove was hard enough to unbalance me and send me falling on my butt. My books scattered to the floor once more, and the air filled with another encore of laughter.

I swore I would've started bawling right then and there, with no care for pride at all, if someone else hadn't intervened at that next moment.

"Really, guys?" Even though I couldn't see them, I could recognize that voice anywhere. Peter. "Do you really have nothing better to do than wasting what little brain cells you have left by picking on a defenseless girl?"

I could see him, a bland shape taller than the girls, somehow maneuvering around them with inhuman speed. There was the sound of his skateboard rolling across tile. "Yoink!"

"Hey!" Astor complained when Peter somehow managed to snatch my glasses back. I knew this because they were back on my face a second later, and he was helping me back up to my feet. "Really, Puny Parker, you're gonna start playing hero now? You didn't learn when Flash stuffed you into a locker yesterday?"

"Well, if you think you can top him, give it your best shot," Peter said with a cocky grin, holding out his arms in offering. I couldn't believe it. Was he really going to let Astor hit him? Because she definitely looked like she was going to take him up on that, if her expression was anything to go by.

With the A-Team distracted, I went to pick up my books again, scooting back so I was standing behind Peter and out of the way of any further onslaught. He had his skateboard in one hand, camera in the other, arms held out like he expected a hug. "Aw, come on, no love for the nerds?"

Astor sneered and the girls stuck out their tongues in disgust, waving their hands and backing off. "Ugh, gross. I don't want to deal with a whole family of freaks."

"Yeah, we don't need you, anyways!" Peter called after them, thrusting his fist into the air. Then he scoffed and turned back to me, a crooked smile on his face, and bowed. "The Gorgons have been vanquished! They shall no longer torment you, milady."

"Ah, th-thank you, brave sir knight," I said, my voice wavering a little but getting stronger as I watched the A-Team disappear down the hall. I managed to put on a fake accent, if a rather bad one. Peter was better at this mock-play than I was. "But I'm afraid they will return again, and in greater numbers. We should, uh, go."

"What? Come on, there's still a couple minutes before the next bell rings," he pleaded, leaning against my locker as though blocking access to my stuff might convince me. Peter was a lot taller than me — taller than a lot of people, really, and he had the puppy-dog-look down pat. All big eyes and fluffy hair just made him look adorable enough to fool anyone into surrender.

But not for me. "And I'm going to need those minutes just to get there. You know I'm a slow walker."

"Ugh, I know!" Peter groaned, throwing his head back melodramatically. "It's one of the worst things about you. Why can't you be struck by lightning and get super speed or something, make my life easier?"

"Because the world revolves around Peter Parker." I rolled my eyes, but I knew he was only joking. Peter liked to act all theatrical to get a laugh out of me. As always, it worked.

"Duh," he said, swinging around me and flashing a smile. Peter could actually be pretty charismatic, if he just applied himself to people he wasn't related to. He hooked an arm around my neck and hauled me along, barely giving me enough time to slam my locker door shut. "But you're the only one who realizes that. And you're handling it pretty well, too, I think."

"Well, if you ever become emperor of the universe, remind me. You're going to need someone to set up your SkyNet," I said, ducking out and heading in the other direction, where my actual class was. I waved at him good-bye. "You're programming skills are crap!"

"We'll take over the world together!" Peter called, waving back before disappearing down the hall on his skateboard. He'd probably get a detention slip before he made it down the corner.

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

Ten minutes later, and I was still nervous.

Pacing back and forth outside the school doors, I had to remind myself to calm down before I gave myself a heart attack. I was a little young, but considering my current state of health, I certainly wouldn't put it outside the realm of possibility.

Why did Mr. Rand think I needed help? Did I just look like I needed it? I had never shown an interest in debating, arguing, or anything like that. What gave Mr. Rand the idea that I'd ever want to do that sort of thing? I specifically avoided speaking in front of an audience unless I had absolutely no choice.

I thought it was a little weird how he mentioned Gwen, now that I thought about it. Did she have something to do with this?

"Hey, Mia. How's it going?"

I jolted at the voice, looking around. Speak of the devil, Gwen was standing there, giving me a friendly grin. She was the type of girl to wear pleated skirts and over-the-knee socks unironically - even more so because Midtown High didn't have a uniform - and still kick your ass in AP Physics. I was also insanely envious of her perfect platinum blonde hair, which made mine look like dishwater.

(I mean, it looked like dishwater anyways, but next to Gwen my thin braid looked downright pitiful).

She must've noticed how skittish I was, because she added with an sheepish smile, "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Waiting for Peter?"

"Uh, yeah," I said, glancing away, at the doors, feeling embarrassed although not being sure why. The fact that Gwen appeared right as I was thinking about her made me feel like she was psychic, and was only being nice to me because she knew better. "He's taking a while. N-not sure what's going on."

"Last I saw him, he was in the Principal's office."

I had to restrain myself from giving a pained sigh. I frowned at Gwen, saying, "Oh, no. What happened _this _time?"

"Nothing...nothing _bad_," Gwen said, making a face and shrugging her shoulders. She bounced on her feet, and I got the feeling she didn't consider the situation as seriously as I did. Was I just overreacting? "He and Flash had a little, er, _confrontation_, if you know what I mean."

"Why am I not surprised?" I said, a weak smile forming on my face. Okay, so I _was_ overreacting, but at least this time I didn't have to worry about it. Peter didn't often get into trouble; any black marks on his records he usually got from dealings with guys like Flash. "I guess it could be worse."

"Well, that's looking on the bright side," Gwen laughed, dimples in her cheeks. I've never met really her outside of class, but I could see why Peter was crushing so hard on her. She had a smile that made you feel amazing, and she didn't treat me like the invalid I was, so that's a bonus. "Have you done the report in US History yet? I can't believe Mrs. James is making us write seven pages when it's not even the final essay."

"I think I've got three pages done?" I said, thinking back to the mess of papers and projects on my desk. "I haven't typed it up yet. At least it's on World War Two, like the easiest subject ever."

"Cause it's not like we don't have enough to do already," Gwen said with a roll of her eyes. Being an Honors student (and future Valedictorian, like she was), meant that homework was pretty much the only fun you were going to have five days out of the week. "I think half the class is writing about Captain America. Mrs. James is probably going to hate him as much as HYDRA once she's done reading them all."

"I think they're just excited," I said, which seemed to be a better answer than 'pure laziness' because, well, it probably was for the most part. Captain America was about a hard a topic to write about as George Washington or Abraham Lincoln, at least in America. "After they pulled him out of the ice, everyone's practically dying to know what really happened."

"I _know_," Gwen sighed, rocking on her heels in impatience. "I just want them to publicly release a statement or something, how he survived for _seventy years_ in the Arctic. They made it sound like he was buried for years, hibernating or something, but how's that even possible? No one can last that long. He must've done the whole caveman-hunter thing, surviving off the land."

I pictured Captain America, like the images in those old propaganda reels, hunting polar bears with a spear, and I just started laughing. "I-I don't think it worked out like that. I mean, he's a S-Super Soldier, right? I don't think he'd - that he'd fall into the same category of realism as the rest of us mere mortals."

"Yeah, that's a good point," Gwen said, nodding. I expected her to add more, but when she didn't, an awkward silence fell between us.

Maybe it was my fault. I was still suspicious she had something to do with Mr. Rand's conversation earlier, and I had no idea how to broach the topic. I didn't want to make her angry - I didn't like causing trouble like that. I could barely defend myself verbally, never mind physically. I was better off not saying anything at all.

Still, I couldn't just stand there chasing circles in my mind. "Uh, Gwen…"

I lost my gall before I could finish, but Gwen looked down and said, "Yeah?"

Her voice made me jolt a little, and I closed my eyes, trying to steel my nerves. I took a breath and tried again. "...Um, did you, uh, have you seen Mr. Rand recently?"

"Hm, no. Why?"

She sounded so innocent, so curious that I thought I'd made a mistake, and I almost didn't want to keep going with this. "He just, uh, m-mentioned you. He talked to me after class. Said I should join the- the d-debate club."

"Really?" Gwen blinked, surprised. Her eyes were so big, so blue, her make-up flawless. Smart, beautiful, nice clothes, she had it all, didn't she? "Huh. What did you say?"

"Um," I couldn't hold her gaze. Looking people in the eye freaked me out almost as much as talking to them. How could I explain this without sounding totally lame? I could only mutter, "I'm not really good at talking to people."

"Oh, that's not true," Gwen admonished, nudging me kindly in the shoulder. It was pretty easy, since she was almost a head taller than me. "I like hearing what you have to say. You just need practice."

"He said the same thing." I was starting to wonder if maybe she was lying to me. It didn't seem to fit the Gwen I knew, but maybe she'd do it so I wouldn't get angry at her, or something.

"Well, maybe he's right?" Gwen said, which was not what I wanted to hear.

I mean, if it _was_ her idea, with Mr. Rand talking to me and all, why the subterfuge? Why wouldn't she tell me herself?

I just frowned and looked away, focusing on a corner as I tried to find the right words to say to that. Didn't they get it? I didn't want this. I didn't want to be noticed. I didn't want to be seen. And when I was, I knew all they saw was the little sick girl who started coughing if she raised her voice half a decibel. I was better off when I couldn't be seen. That's what I wanted to say.

"I don't know," was what I actually said. I could only shrug half-heartedly. "I don't think I'm ready for that."

"Well, you'll never know until you try," Gwen said, trying to sound encouraging, and it only made me more frustrated because she was right. Before I could try (and fail) to counter that point, her head turned away and she said, "Oh, hey, there's my dad. See you later, Mia."

"Yeah," I said as she trotted off, ponytail bouncing behind her. My voice was too small to carry after. "See you later. I guess."

Her dad drove a black Crown Victoria, which was about as obvious as a hiding cop as you could get. But it looked incredibly normal when a teenage girl got into the front seat, smiling and chatting loudly to the man in the driver's seat. While Gwen's face was soft and sweet, Chief Stacy had narrowed eyes and a severe mouth, although he looked mildly non-threatening when he waved at me before driving away.

"Whoa, was that Gwen Stacy?" Peter appeared beside me, mouth agape. He looked down at me, eyes wide. "Did she say anything about me?"

I rolled my eyes, heading for the street now that he was here. "Not everything's about you, Pete."

"Yeah, but _did_ she?" he urged, smiling giddily.

"She knows we're related, if that's what you mean." I replied flatly, then looked at him, this time noticing the new bruise on his face. It made me do a double-take. "Whoa, nice shiner. Oh, that's right, Gwen said you got into a fight today."

"She saw that?" Peter's face broke out into a grin, as if that was the best news he gotten all day. He punched the air with his fist. "Awesome!"

"Yeah, I'm sure she was really impressed when Flash pounded you into the dirt," I said, raising my eyebrows as Peter trotted ahead, apparently not realizing what the black eye made him look like. "I take it Flash won this time?"

"Well," Peter said, turning around and walking backwards to face me while he was talking. We passed under the sleek white gates of the school. "He always does, but only because he couldn't think of a good enough comeback."

I just shook my head. I had no idea what Gwen thought of this nerd (and I wasn't going to ask, because I knew better than to feed Peter's burgeoning ego), but there was no doubt to the fact that Peter had a tendency to stick his nose into things that didn't concern him, which more often than not got him into trouble.

I just asked, "So, what really happened?"

"Lunch period. Flash socked me in the face." Peter said, frowning at my tone. We set off at a walking pace; since I was shorter, Peter slowed down to match me. He stuck a thumb to his chest, "I was actually trying to help, you know, be the good guy? Flash was picking on this other kid, trying to stick his face into mashed potatoes. Everyone else was watching, cheering like idiots. I'm the one who actually steps up to the guy and you know what happens? I get pounded and break my camera. Un-_freaking_-believable."

"Let me see," I said, pulling at the vintage camera hanging around Peter's neck. It was his father's, something Peter found in his basement about a year or two ago. He'd been obsessed with photography ever since. "Looks like just the lens is cracked. You might be able to find a replacement."

"Where? They don't sell parts like these anymore," Peter complained, taking back the camera and caressing it woefully. "This used to be my dad's. It was his favorite. Uncle Ben's going to kill me if he finds out, and I don't have the cash to buy another one."

"Maybe you can find a used piece on Amazon. Or," I added with a positive spin, hoping to inspire him. "You can retrofit a modern one. You're good with the gadgety hardware stuff. And Uncle Ben's got tools in his garage. How hard could it be, especially for you?"

"Hmm," Peter squinted his eyes, brought the camera a little closer for examination. "Well, we _do _have another one. Its lens is kind of small, but it has better focus. I might be able to whip something up. I should keep you around, Miss Fletcher. You've got plenty of ideas I could steal."

I jabbed him with my elbow. "You wouldn't last a second without me. Every pilot needs his wingman. Or, uh, wingwoman."

"Yeah, you're my Goose," he said, slinging an arm around my shoulder, getting me in a headlock and nearly dragging me along. It was all in good fun, but I was having a hell of a time trying to wriggle out. "Wait, so does that make me Maverick?"

"You got the chops for it," I said, poking at his face. "If you keep this up. So long as I'm not the one that dies and gets replaced by some asshole that you didn't even like in the first place."

"What? Are you kidding me?" he said, sounding offended I would even mention it. "You can't be replaced. The only way anyone can replace you is if they put your brain into a specially-designed android body."

"One that has good lungs and immunity to all diseases. So I don't get pneumonia again."

"And has killer biceps," Peter added, swinging me around like I was a sack of potatoes. Peter was no weight-lifter, but compared to me he was as strong as the Hulk. I ended up on his shoulders, and I dug my fingers into his hood, clinging tight as he held onto my ankles, anchoring me. "You need to protect me whenever I decide to do something stupid like stand up to Flash again."

"So I'm your wingwoman _and_ your second in battle?" I said, pulling an exaggerated face. "Jeez, don't tell me I'm your Girl Friday, too."

"Of course not," Peter said cheerfully, skipping a little and making me bounce and laugh. People stared and skirted around us, two crazy kids gathering too much attention on the street. "You'll just program one into a robot, so she'll do all my homework while I create my world-changing invention."

"And which invention is that, exactly?" I asked sarcastically. "The one that makes plastic efficiently bio-degradable, or the one that turns gas engines into electric ones?"

"Whichever one gives me the most money and also doesn't get me sued by a million oil companies."

Then he took a sharp turn, _away_ from the subway entrance. I swayed on his shoulders from the momentum, craning my head. With growing alarm, I watched the stairs that lead to the depths of New York recede behind us. "Hey, where are we going?"

"To the park. I want to practice on my skateboard."

"Why, so you can give yourself a broken arm, too?"

"Hey, that was _one _time! And it wasn't my fault that some other kid ran into me."

"Psshh. You just won't admit you have terrible coordination, Peter." I said, but didn't argue as Peter continued heading towards the park with me on his shoulders. I felt like a child, but not necessarily in a bad way. I'd always felt small, but at least Peter made it fun for me.

"Hey, I have _excellent_ coordination. I just...uh, get distracted."

"A lot."

"A lot." Peter sighed, hanging his head.

With a cheeky grin, I pulled his hood up, covering his eyes and making him stumble a little bit. "Hey! I can't see!"

When he nearly lost his balance, I yanked it back up again, shaking with laughter. After I was done, I said, "I guess we'll see how good you are, then. Maybe you can join the X-Games. You think they have a section for bow-legged nerds?"

"Oh, hardy-har," he drawled. "You're so funny, Mia."

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

Later, I found myself sitting on some concrete steps as Peter attempted to pull a kickflip for the hundredth time. He only succeeded in falling on his butt every time. I had my head in my hands, watching in utter boredom as he tried it again, to absolutely no effect. "Is it really that hard, or are you doing this on purpose?"

"No! It's just being stupid, that's all." Peter growled, getting back to his feet. He kicked his skateboard in frustration, but it only hit the nearby wall and rammed back into his shin. "Yeow!"

I failed to hide my smirk as he hopped up and down on one foot, clutching his bruised leg. "Didn't Einstein say that repeating the same task over and over again and expecting different results is the definition of insanity?"

"You know what," Peter said, snatching up his skateboard and throwing me a dirty look. "If I wanted your advice, I'd ask."

"A monkey can do better than you."

"Hey! What happened to being my wingwoman? You're way too negative to be having my back, Goose."

"I'm just trying to keep your ego in check," I said, shrugging my shoulders with a casual flare. "Maverick's got a head so big it almost got him killed. Actually, it got _Goose_ killed. So really, I'm just looking out for myself."

"It wasn't Maverick's fault Goose died. It was the Commies!" Peter pointed out.

"Goose wouldn't be fighting them at all if it had been for Maverick," I said, standing up and brushing off my jeans. "Besides, you're doing it wrong. You do a kickflip by placing the _ball_ of your foot on the tail, not your _heel_."

Peter frowned at me, then dropped his skateboard, rolling on it with his foot. "What, _now_ you tell me? Why didn't you say something earlier?"

"I liked watching you fall. It was funny."

"You are a terrible human being," Peter made a face, then pushed the skateboard towards me with his foot. It came to a gentle stop at my toes. "Here, get on."

"What? No way," I kicked it back like it was covered in sewage. Aside from the obvious, I didn't like skateboarding. I had terrible balance and I was afraid of falling and hurting myself. I was about as sturdy as a hollow glass statue. "I don't want to die, thanks."

"Just stand on it, it's easy!" Peter picked up the skateboard and strolled over to me. I tried to get away, but he caught my arm and held me in place while he set down the skateboard again. Then, against my will, he physically picked me up and placed me on top. I gasped as the skateboard rolled back and forth beneath my feet. But Peter just laughed. "Left foot first, you goober. Just hang on to me and I'll push you."

"You're not going to do that thing parents do with their kids riding their bike for the first time where they push you and let go, right?"

"Of course not. Why would I ever do a thing that?"

"Because you're Peter, and that's a Peter thing to do."

"Will you just relax and trust me already? Sheesh."

And suddenly I was moving, Peter pushing me between my shoulderblades as the skateboard rolled forward beneath my shaking knees. The skate park here was pretty flat, filled mostly with kids also practicing moves before trying them on the ramps and rails. I threw out my arms to keep balance, my breath hitching before going faster as my heart rate picked up. "Whoa! Slow down!"

"We're not even going fast!" Peter said, but I could tell he was picking up speed, from sound of his quickening footsteps. I wanted to bail out, but I was going too fast and I didn't know if Peter could catch me in time before I ate pavement. "Keep your weight on the balls of your feet, like you told me."

Well, I should've kept my mouth shut, because it was a lot easier said than done. Putting weight closer to my toes felt like I was going to tip the skateboard and that just freaked me out even more. I could only rock back and forth, unable to hold the stance.

But the longer Peter pushed me, the more I got to settle in. I didn't have the correct stance, probably, but I found one mildly comfortable that kept me from falling over. I brought in my arms a little bit as I put weight down on my center of gravity.

Peter, sensing the change, went a little faster. An uncontrollable burst of giggles left my throat as we went over a small rise, my stomach dropping as we shot over the decline. I was picking up momentum, and Peter stumbled trying to keep up with me. "Use your feet to push yourself forward!"

I tried, taking one foot down to skim the tarmac before I kicked off the ground, smiling giddily as I jerked forward. Between the laughter and going so fast, it was getting a little hard to breathe. I coughed a little, but I was too busy actually enjoying myself for once to give it any notice.

I had never gone this fast outside of a car before. My braid whipped back and forth behind me, my too-large sweater billowing in the wind. It was..._exhilarating_, actually. I wasn't even afraid. It was what I always imagined it would be like, to actually have _fun_ like normal people do. To play sports, to throw balls, to run and scream and dance helter-skelter across the field.

Things I could never do. Things that Astor had, that Peter had, that I could only get a taste of before it killed me.

I didn't even realize Peter had let go until I glanced behind me and saw that he was twenty feet behind and getting further away.

"_Peter!_" I shrieked, utterly betrayed.

"You're doing great!" He called back, jumping up and down, waving back at me. "Keep going! You've got it!"

I couldn't keep looking at him forever. Realizing I had no idea where I was going, I whipped my head back around, my heart jumping into my throat. My balance wobbled and the nose of the skateboard jerked around as my confidence nose-dived.

I thought I was doing pretty well, though, until the ground disappeared.

I cried out, bending at the knees to keep myself on the skateboard as I was suddenly flying down a ramp. I heard Peter shouting behind me, but I couldn't catch what he said over the wind flying around my glasses and past my ears.

The concrete rose and before I could figure out how to puts the brakes on this stupid, I went flying over the ridge.

The skateboard left my feed and I went tumbling into the dirt on the other side. I was lucky, the fall had been short, and the ground on the other side was a lot softer than concrete. I must've fallen in the grass area just beyond the skatepark.

My glasses fell from my face as I kicked up cloud of dust. I felt it on my tongue as I gasped, banging my elbow and knees in the process of breaking my fall.

_Oh, no_.

I tumbled several times before coming to a stop, and by then I was coughing up a fit. Before I realized it, my throat had closed up and chest started tightening. I hacked into my hand, so hard that tears came into my eyes.

I tried finding my glasses, my other hand skimming across the ground like a frantic spider, but they weren't there. My vision was too hazy to make anything out besides large general shapes and colors, and I was too incapacitated to move.

Asthma was a whole lot of Not Fun, although I guess it was hard for some people to take it seriously. People like Astor, for example, who thought it was just a cliché weakness for a nerd like me. I mean, she's not _wrong_, but that's life. I _became_ the nerd because asthma prevented me from being almost anything else. A part of me always wondered if she thought I was faking it for sympathy. _That _would be a new one.

Anyways, according to Astor and my guidance counselor, if I just pushed myself a little harder, ate a healthy diet, and exercised, that my asthma would just go away. Or become less of a problem. Or something. Whatever. If I did that, I could become popular and not treated like the diseased, rickety-boned study case that I had been since the day I was born. That I could do sports and buff up my extracurriculars and show how well-rounded I am to the colleges.

I tried to explain to them — it's not that easy. When I get an asthma attack, I can't just "tough it out". It's not like a stubbed toe or headache that goes away eventually. It's my lungs rejecting my body, rejecting the air I need to breathe. What the hell am I supposed to do, tell my lungs to quit being babies and deal with it?

Yeah, if only it were that easy. No, having asthma — and in particular, having an asthma attack — was like breathing through a straw. And not just any straw, but a straw in a glass full of thick, wonderful strawberry vanilla smoothie. You breathe it in, sucking at the liquid matter that's too thick and slow-moving and in the way of what you really need. It's long and frustrating and you just want to give up, but you can't because you'd die. Probably.

It was how I got Peter to understand the sensation of asthma. Peter was just as much of a nerd as I was, probably even more so, but at least he didn't have to deal with something like that. Low endurance and muscle mass, sure, but not asthma.

"Mia? Mia, where did you go?" I heard Peter call, distant but getting closer. I tried calling back, but I couldn't even breathe. I heard his footsteps draw closer, running up the hill till I saw him appear at the top.

"Mia!" he spotted me immediately, all curled up in the fetal position, gasping for air. Peter leapt forward, sliding down the ramp and scrambling to a crouch at my side. He waved his hands over my body frantically, not knowing what to do with them. "Oh, god, a-are you okay? Where's your inhaler?"

"I-it's...h-ho-ome..." I rasped, covering my mouth as my chest rattled. Every time I inhaled, my throat whistled, air passing through a hole too small.

"Hold on, I-I-I think I have a spare," Peter threw off his backpack, digging around inside before he withdrew the little white canister, holding it out to me with his other hand on my back. Not many knew this, but like me Peter had a terrible stutter, especially when he was nervous. The only way he'd overcome was through acting, being grandiose and funny; but I suppose in moments like these, it was hard to think of anything smart to say. "You'll be — you'll be fine. Hey, hey, hey, Mia, look at me, look at me. You're g-g-gonna be all right, okay? I w-won't let an-any-anything happen to you."

Peter was staring right into my eyes, brown into gray, and as I held his gaze and trying not to panic, I knew he was telling the truth. I had to. Peter could've said the sky was green and we were on Mars, and I'd believe it with a second thought.

Grabbing the inhaler, I shoved it into my mouth, squeezed my eyes shut, and pressed down.

Cool, dry, slightly stale mist entered my throat and suddenly the vice-like grip around my lungs was gone. Everything opened up and it felt like the cotton in my throat had been cleared away. I took in a huge, grateful gasp of air and slumped against the back wall of the ramp, exhausted and sore. Attacks could really take a lot out of you.

"Here, put these back on," His hand was in front of her face and I felt cool plastic slide over my ears. Ah, so Peter found my glasses after all. The world came into focus and as Peter pulled his hand away, I saw a faint smile on his face, more relieved than anything. "Not so bad, huh?"

"You mean, aside from my total wipe-out?" I wheezed, feeling the air flow past my throat easier. There wasn't that annoying whistling nose anymore that made me sound like a dying bird. "Yeah, it went great."

"Are you going to tell Aunt Hillary?"

"What, that I had an asthma attack?" I asked, my eyebrows shooting up. Peter always fussed whenever I got hurt; he and my mom could compete for winning prize in that sport. But I imagined he was also afraid that Mom would blame him for this.

Which she _might_, since Peter was usually the reason I got into trouble, as rare as those moments might be. "I don't know, maybe. If she asks first. If not...I'll just pretend nothing happened, and then neither of us will be grounded."

Mom had a tendency to overreact whenever I got hurt. Just last year I broke my finger after Missy Kallenback slammed a locker door on it, and Mom wouldn't even let me take a bath unsupervised for fear of getting the casting wet. Even a simple asthma attack meant I was spending less time outside after school. I already had a lifetime pass in gym class, I didn't want to be cut off from the physical world entirely.

"I like that plan, that's a good plan." he said, helping me up by the arm. "Uncle Ben and Aunt May already know I got into a fight with Flash, they don't need to find out that I almost killed you, too."

"It was an accident, I'm sure they'd understand."

"For you, maybe," Peter said, looking glum as he got his skateboard and hiked it over his shoulder. "It's different with me. They know I know better."

"It wasn't so bad. I actually liked skateboarding, for a whole three seconds." I said. "And then I fell."

We started heading out the sidewalk, silently agreeing that enough was enough for the day. I had to get home anyways — Mom didn't want me out past five on a weekday.

"We need to work on that android replacement body for you. I need someone to keep up with me." Peter said as we hit the sidewalk. The subway was only a few blocks away. Even though the tube was a total germ factory, it was also the quickest way for either of us to get home, and if I kept my hands to myself, I wouldn't contract any life-destroying illnesses. "You can be the Million-Dollar Bionic Woman."

"I think I'd like that million in hard cash, so Mom and I can move out of Hell's Kitchen."

"Is it really that bad?"

"Are you kidding? It makes the rest of Manhattan look like Disneyland. I'm not allowed to walk alone after dark."

"You're not allowed to walk alone _before_ dark, either."

"Yeah, well," I made a face, jogging a bit to catch up with him. I stumbled and nearly fell. Just that winded me, and then I had to slow down and catch my breath before I got another asthma attack. "We'll see... about that... won't we?"

I always wanted to be like everybody else. Like, as much as I hated Astor, I was also supremely jealous of her, because she could play all the sports she wanted while I had to sit on the bleachers. Yeah, maybe if I had been normal, I still wouldn't be cut out for field hockey, but I'd sure like to _try_, you know?

I wanted other people to just give me a chance to prove myself. I didn't want them to hold me back. Of everyone I knew, I'd thought Peter would understand.

"Whoa there, Goose," Peter caught me before I could eat shit on the pavement. I didn't like being manhandled, especially considering how easy it was for other people to do it to me, but this would be the one time I didn't complain. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. Let's just make sure we get you there in one piece, okay?"

"Yeah, fine," I muttered, stuffing my hands in my pockets, hunching my shoulders as he slung an arm around me. Peter meant well, but that didn't mean I had to like it. "Whatever makes you happy, I guess."

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

"Watcha doin', platypus?" Peter asked, sliding in on his swivel chair and spinning around. He was eating a banana, as if he didn't just have a massive plate of food for dinner.

"Coding, what does it look like?" I muttered, glancing at him in irritation. I had to pull on the edge of the desk to bring myself back, and slapped Peter's hand away when he tried to type something in. "No touch! How are you still hungry?"

"I'm a growing boy, I'm allowed to eat," he said around a mouthful, throwing me a disgruntled look. "And you put in a colon instead of a semi-colon. Just sayin'."

"Oh." I winced, embarrassed, and made the edit. "Thanks."

"So are you going to tell me what this does eventually?" Peter asked, leaning over my shoulder to watch as I worked. It was a little annoying, but he had a good eye for mistakes, and the extra help seemed valuable. "Or are you just going to hold out and torture me until you're done?"

"The last one sounds promising," I replied, smirking as I typed. My hands were small, and Peter's keyboard looked ginormous in comparison. It seemed like I had to move twice as much just to get the same amount of work done. "I like watching you squirm."

"You are so evil," he laughed, and poked me in the side, making me jump. "Good thing you're ticklish."

"I'm not ticklish!" I protested, and I could see the look in Peter's eyes that he was ready to challenge that claim, so I quickly diverted the subject. "What's up with your background, by the way? Are you stalking Gwen now?"

"What? No!" It was funny how we made the same yelping sound when we were offended. Although we couldn't see Peter's computer background at the moment, Peter fidgeted like he wanted to change it right now, as if to somehow prove me wrong. "It's - it's just a nice photograph! Of the debate club! N-not of Gwen or anyone in particular."

"Are you going to ask her out?" I asked, trying to keep my face neutral as I turned back to the screen. While Peter had a great sense of humor, he tended to sour when it went the wrong way. Especially at his expense, by me. "Or, you know, talk to her, like a regular human being?"

"I dunno, maybe," Peter said in a sullen tone, hunching his shoulders.

I glanced at him, suspicious. "Maybe? When?"

"Well…" He drew out the word, spinning his seat absent-mindedly, but I knew it was so he didn't have to look at me. "I may or may not be going to OSCORP tomorrow. They've got a tour for incoming interns."

"You applied?" I raised my eyebrows, surprised. Peter never seemed particularly interested in OSCORP before. He always liked Stark Industries more.

"Not...exactly." Peter winced.

I squinted at him, tilting my head and turning away from the computer entirely to face him. Peter still wouldn't look at me directly. "What do you mean, not exactly? You're not going to do anything illegal, are you? And what does OSCORP have to do with Gwen?"

"Gwen works at OSCORP."

"So you _are_ stalking her."

"Oh, my god! It's not stalking if it's on her Facebook page!" Peter threw out his arms, sounding genuinely annoyed now. But I angered him to the point that he spun to face me again, which was what I wanted in the first place; he didn't seem to realize this. "And we're friends on Facebook. Is _that_ illegal, Nancy Drew?"

"Hey, I'm just teasing, relax," I held up my hands in a gesture of peace. I couldn't help but grin at the rising blush in Peter's face. Aw, he's embarrassed. "Does she know you'll be there tomorrow?"

"Um. No." He huffed, dropping his arms, shoulders drooping. Peter was great at many things, but social graces were not one of them. "And that's not the only reason I'm going to OSCORP."

I paused, waiting for him to elaborate, but frowned when he didn't. Something seemed off in the way Peter was acting, hesitant and secretive, that made me wonder what he was keeping from me. "Peter, what're you talking about? What else is at OSCORP?"

"I, uh," Peter made a face, rubbing the back of his head. The empty banana peel lay forgotten on the desk as he stood up, walking over to his bed, and the mess of papers on top of it. From underneath he pulled out a leather briefcase, a little worn but well-made. The initials RP were stamped on the front. "I found this in the basement, after it flooded the other day, remember? It...it belonged to my dad. He left it behind, the night of - b-before the accident."

He handed it to me, but I nearly dropped it, surprised by how heavy it was. Good quality leather, brown, with brass clasps. Certainly professional, the type of thing a bio-geneticist would carry to work. I didn't recognize it; my memories of Peter's dad were already faint to begin with. "I'm not following. What does this have to do with OSCORP?"

"Look inside. Between the divider."

Opening the flap, I got a whiff of musty air before analyzing the inside of the briefcase. It was empty, and the divider was pretty thin. Yet when I pressed my fingers along the top, I felt a small pinch, and when I wedged my fingernails in, I discovered that there was extra space, the divider splitting open in the middle. "A secret compartment!"

"Yeah, and guess what was inside." Peter said, and didn't wait for me to theorize before handing over a manila folder. The label was stamped with 'Project 00' in red letters. Upon opening the file, I found several sheets of research and a debriefing report, mostly unreadable due to all the redacted sections, covered in black ink. I felt a chill going down my back, like I was looking at secret military files.

I understood some of the research, though. "Your dad was working on some sort of...what, gene splicer? Playing with insect DNA…?"

"Arachnids, actually," Peter corrected, coming over to point out the double-helix diagram. "Mixed with primates. There were other combinations, too. Mostly lizard DNA, put into mammals. From what I can tell, they were focusing on...I think _regenerative_ properties. He even wrote an equation that would give them the perfect answer…"

Said equation stood out from the rest of the data, written in scrawled pencil instead of the finely printed ink. I noted one glaring defect. "It's not finished."

"No." Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair as he fell back on his bed, papers crunching underneath his weight. "He didn't get the chance."

I stared at him for a moment, before going back to the papers, flipping through them again. The debriefing certainly seemed to have come from a government office, but even the name of said office, or the person who wrote this was redacted. There was only the seal of an eagle, with its large wings and tail taking up most of the space; on its chest was a shield of stars and stripes, clearly American - but it didn't look like any government agency I'd ever seen before. Was it NSA? CIA? Or maybe something else entirely.

No, that didn't seem right. Around the circle were six big letters, which read:

"S.H.I.E.L.D?" Peter said out loud, frowning. "What the hell does _that _stand for?"

"N-no idea, looks gov-government to me." I made a helpless gesture with my hands. I had no idea if this was good news or not. Were little-known agencies something to be concerned about? "D-did your dad work f-for the U.S.?"

"Not that I know of," Peter reached over to shake the mouse a little. The seal vanished, replaced by the black screen, which quickly filled with a list of words and numbers. It took me a moment to recognize them as dates. "Whoa, what is this? Some sort of databank?"

He clicked on one of the names — "Experiment 4; 3/12/99" — and the screen was filled with the grainy scan of a document. The same seal with the eagle was at the top of the page, and I could read 'From the desk of Dr. Richard Parker' followed by several paragraphs of typed text beneath it.

Unfortunately, most of it was rendered unreadable due to all the redacted sections, covered in black ink. I felt a chill going down my back, like I was looking at secret military files.

What was this?

"Whoa," Peter breathed, scanning what lines we could read. "Looks like he was working on some genetic experiment."

"A secret one, t-too, by th-the looks of it." I said, leaning back a little. There was something very not-kosher about all of this, and I didn't like it. "P-Peter, I d-don't think we're supposed to —"

"Wait, wait," Peter interrupted, using the mouse to go back to the list, then clicking on another title. I barely managed to read the word 'Debriefing' before another scanned image showed up. The same seal, Dr. Parker's name, blacked-out text. Peter went back, picked another one, and found the same results there, too. "Huh, I wonder why they redacted so much of it."

"P-probably because it's t-top secret information," I said, reaching over to grab the mouse again, taking it back under my control. I quickly exited out of the files, much to Peter's complaint. "D-Do you really th-think we should be looking a-at this sort of st-stuff? Wh-wh-who knows who this really belongs t-to?"

"It belonged to my dad." Peter's voice was firm, and the look he gave me was one of irritation and disappointment. "And now it belongs to me. What's got you all freaked out suddenly? I thought you liked all this weird, secrecy stuff. It's just like in the movies!"

"Exactly, they're just movies!" I pointed out. "This i-is _real _, Peter. I d-don't know what SHIELD is b-but they look like they m-mean business. A-and I don't think this is all… w-well, _legal _. Your dad was hiding this for a reason, right? What if it was the last project he worked on?"

"It could be," Peter looked back at the screen, tapping his bottom lip with his fingers. He reclaimed the mouse, clicked another file. "The dates are right. Whoever this SHIELD was, he must've been helping them, with this Project Phoenix or whatever. I still can't tell what it's supposed to do. It says here, 'interviewed wounded vets at the local clinic' — what would they be interviewing vets for? Sounds like they were _building _something…"

"What would a p-professor in genetics b-be building?" I asked skeptically.

"I have no idea," he threw up a hand, before using it to prop his head. A line of concentration formed in his brow as he scrolled down the list. "There's gotta be hundreds of files here.

Communications, reports, field studies…this is a lot of stuff for just a year of work. It all stops in November of 1999, right before the-the plane crash."

He sucked in a breath through his teeth, as though the words hurt. Peter's parents had died on Thanksgiving vacation — their plane, a little propeller engine, was heading to the Catskills to visit friends, only for engine failure to lead to a catastrophic crash into dense forest. It took weeks before anyone knew what really happened, for park rangers to find the remains of the crashed plane, and later for police to officially pronounce Richard and Mary Parker dead.

"It's okay, Peter," I said softly, putting hand on his shoulder. Peter didn't react, just dropped his gaze to his shoes, looking at a complete loss. At least he didn't shove my hand off. "If it's too much, w-we don't have t-to look at it a-anymore —"

"No, it's fine." He just muttered, making a face as he crossed his arms and scowled out the window. Not in an angry way, but just frustrated. I thought I'd get a reason for that, but Peter remained silent, and it stretched into awkwardness as I sat there, trying to take all of this in.

I mean, this was huge. Not world-ending huge, but kind of close. At least for Peter, and me by proxy. I hardly remembered the shift in my memories, from when his parents were there, to when they…weren't anymore. I couldn't even remember the funeral — although, chances were I was probably in the hospital at the time.

And now Peter just stumbled upon his dad's old work, something buried in the apartment for years, forgotten, then rediscovered by sheer chance of a plumbing failure.

One might think it was fate.

A warning went off in my head that I let the conversation drop for too long. I glanced at Peter, who seemed lost in thought, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he stared out the window, the rain pouring down and the tree in the backyard swaying gently in the wind. It didn't look like he was going to bring something up anytime soon, so I broke the silence. "Y-you think we should show Aunt M-May or Uncle Ben a-any of this? Or maybe my mom?"

Peter jolted a little at my voice, before recovering and shaking his head. He started to pace, which meant he must be really thinking hard. "No. I just — I don't want to upset them. They're probably not gonna get it any more than we do. Why make them worry over this? It's just... so old."

"What a-about Ned?" I asked, glancing back at the computer. Our words were low, like we were discussing some sort of secret conspiracy. "This s-s-sort of thing seems r-right up his alley."

But Peter just shrugged half-heartedly. "I don't know. I'm not sure he'd understand, really. And what's the point, really? What does it even mean anymore?"

_Trouble _, I almost said, but kept my mouth shut. I glanced at the computer again. Despite my wariness, I was intensely curious of what this SHIELD was, and what Project Phoenix was about. Was I crazy for thinking that there might be more to this story than met the eye? Peter wasn't wrong when he said it was like the movies. I was partial to conspiracy theories myself, but I usually didn't talk about it too much. Especially now, when it might upset Peter.

I could see Peter getting himself all worked up, and bit my lip. This was starting to feel a lot like my fault. "I-I'm sorry I s-said that. I shouldn't have. I-I didn't m-mean to say that t-there's anything _bad _going o-on with them, Pete —"

"Doesn't matter now," I was taken aback by his careless shrug. The look Peter gave me was one of defeat, of apathy. "They're dead."

"P-Peter…"

"My last memory of them was that Thanksgiving right before they left on the plane," he said abruptly, as though he hadn't heard me. Peter spun mindlessly in his chair as he continued to speak, "When I was five. There was this massive snowstorm. I remember the car getting stuck. Mom and Dad were arguing, but we got here just fine. I got a cold, though, because we were stuck out there so long. Turned into the flu, remember? I think you got it, too. We both had to stay home. I cried so hard because I couldn't go to the Catskills with them. I remember Mom said she'd come back with a new train set for me, to make up for it. If I had been on that plane…I guess I was lucky I got sick after all, huh?"

Peter laughed, but it was dry and humorless, and he brought up his arms to cradle his head, leaning back in the chair to look up at the ceiling. "They were good people. They didn't do anything wrong. How is any of that fair?"

I kind of just sat there, at a loss for words. There was a bitterness in his voice that made me shift uncomfortably. I didn't like talking about my own emotions, I certainly wasn't any good at handling other people. But Peter was my cousin, my best friend, and if there was anyone I was going try for, it'd be him. "L-life isn't fair, Peter. Stuff like that, it j-just happens."

Peter sighed, dropped his arms and hung his head. He scuffed his bare feet against the hardwood floor. "I know. I just wish I knew them better, you know? Uncle Ben tells me stories about them all the time, but it's...it's not the same. And now I have _this thing _…"

He gestured vaguely to the computer, voice trailing, and Peter's eyes glazed over as he was lost in a distant thought, maybe a dream. I had to call him back to reality. "W-we can st-still look, i-if it makes you feel b-better."

"What?" Peter blinked, meeting my eyes again. "I thought this freaked you out."

"It _does _, b-but," I inhaled through my nose, a little disgruntled with myself. As Peter's cousin, it felt like my duty to back him up on these sorts of things. "I-I guess I'm c-curious, too. Maybe we can find out what really happened. What P-Project Phoenix is, a-and why your dad w-was working o-on it."

"Really?" And just like that, Peter's eyes lit up, a bewildered smile pulling at his lips. He drew in, grabbing my arm. "You're serious? Because I swear, if you're just pulling my leg, I'm gonna—"

"I'm n-not pulling y-your leg," I said, shaking my head and laughing a little. "I just — wh-whatever this is, i-it's important, r-right? We sh-should do s-something about it."

"Awesome!" Peter pumped his fist, then paused. "We'll start right away and — Oh, wait, we can't. I almost forgot, we still have that field trip on Friday, remember? And then there's all of that homework…"

"F-fine, we'll do it a-after all that," I said with a shrug of my shoulders. I wasn't sure if we'd really tackled whatever problem Peter had, or if pursuing this Project Phoenix or whatever was really going to give us what we wanted, but it felt wrong not to try. "It's n-not like w-waiting a few days is gonna m-make a-a difference after, like, ten years o-of this thing hiding. And I-I c-can't wait to go t-to that OsCorp exhibit."

"Me, too," Peter said, grinning. "I want to see those crazy genetically-altered spiders they got going on."

"The b-bugs?" I made a face, a little grossed out. I was not the biggest fan of bugs, and spiders were right up that creepy-crawly alley. "You're the only p-person I know wh-who likes spiders, you know that?

"First of all, they're arachnids," Peter held up a finger. "And second of all, what's wrong with spiders?"

"E-everything. Everything i-is wrong with spiders."

"That sounds a little biased to me, Mia."

"Just t-try not t-to get into anything when y-you're ogling th-them, yeah?"

"What? C'mon, you know me," Peter snorted with a toss of his head. "How much trouble could I get into?"

"Well, th-that black eye tells a-a certain story."

"Shut up."

* * *

Author's Note: So these are the "deleted scenes" from my very first draft of Rebel Columbia, in 2016. Back then, the fic was titled "Incandescent" and this version of Spider-Man was Andrew Garfield's (as Homecoming had yet to be announced). Likewise, I had a subplot in which Peter and Mia would discover that Peter's dad, an acclaimed scientist, had contributed to the creation of the Extremis virus, and was possibly killed for his knowledge. I never ended up getting too far with that subplot as I began rewriting soon after Homecoming was announced, then twice after I saw the movie.

Also featuring: Gwen Stacy, who was later replaced by Kate Bishop (Hawkeye - i had an idea to bring in her origin, but decided against it as I already had too much on my plate); and finally MJ from Homecoming.

Note: Hillary is Amelia's mother. I changed the name to Hedy sometime after this.


	8. Incandescent Part Two

**A/N: The second half of the first draft scenes. This one features Dr. Connors, from **_**The Amazing Spider-Man**_**, as I was really focused on the crossover and exploring that version of Peter's origin. As you can guess, the story was very different from what it eventually turned out to be.**

* * *

**Incandescent Part Two**

* * *

Three hours later, Peter and I stood at the doorstep of Dr. Connors house — it took two buses to get there, in which I had to convince Peter to both fix his clothes and take a nap before he had a stroke.

Dr. Connors house was about as nice as you could expect a man with his kind of paycheck to have. Down in Greenwich Village, were luscious trees and rose gardens made the place a veritable paradise in the middle of a concrete jungle, Dr. Connors lived in a lovely refurbished home, with silver-white walls of stone, a red-brick pathway, and a two-door garage, an utter rarity in Manhattan.

I was still questioning Peter's sanity about all of this. Neither of us knew Dr. Connors, and his address wasn't exactly public information (turned out Peter needed me for more than one thing; I obliged, if only because I was too intrigued to _not_ help). Now, here we were, two ragtag kids ringing the doorbell to man who didn't know, who wouldn't recognize us, and might very well call the cops for trespassing on his property. And, you know, finding his address hidden on OsCorp's website.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" I hissed as Peter rang the doorbell. He was calmer, now that he was rested, and with his shirt right way out and shoes tied, he looked positively normal. Nothing like the boy I saw this morning.

"I guess we'll find out," Peter answered, just as the door opened. A tall blond, bespectacled man frowned quizzically at us, and before he could say anything, Peter cleared his throat, and with a nervous smile, said, "Uh, Dr. Connors, you don't remember me, I, uh —"

"You're the intern from the other day," Dr. Connors said, raising his chin in recognition. I was a little surprised to hear the man's accent: Welsh, maybe, from the sound of it. Dr. Connors voice was soft, but carefully composed when he said, "And you brought a friend. Well, I'm sure you're a very nice young man, but this is a _home_, and I'll ask you to make an appointment with my office."

_Damn. So much for that. _I knew it was over then, over before it even started. Dr. Connors stepped away, about to close the door again. I had just stepped back, ready to tell Peter that we tried, that we could do something else, and really just leave this place that didn't welcome us, when Peter suddenly blurted: "I'm Richard Parker's son."

"Peter!" I hissed, startled. I knew that was his trump card, the one thing that might convince Dr. Connors otherwise, but I hadn't though Peter brave enough to pull it.

Or that it would work.

Dr. Connors, too, paused at the sound of that. He turned to look at Peter, a flash of surprise on his face before being replaced by one of quiet curiosity, bemusement; and slowly the door started to open again. Dr. Connors stepped closer, squinting at his face, as though he might see some remnant of Richard Parker in this boy who stood before him with hunched shoulders and unkempt hair.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, and repeated, "…Peter?"

"I-I just," Peter shifted on his feet, struggling to remain natural. "I know you used to work with my dad, and I just, er — I wanted to talk about him. About the work you guys did together. I wanted to know what he was doing before he, um, left."

Dr. Connors nodded slowly, as if this was what he expected to hear out of the mouth of Richard Parker's son. "Yes, yes, of course. Richard was an old friend of mine. Old friend. Oh, please, come in. I already have some tea boiling."

He stepped back to allow us inside, and he raised his eyebrows at me. Once more I felt self-conscious, wondering if he was judging my current state of health, the fact that I was contaminating his home, but instead he merely asked, "And, may I ask, who you are?"

"This is my cousin," Peter said, gesturing to me, which also created enough space in the doorway for me to pass through. I did so, hesitantly.

"Mia." I managed to say without making gross sounds with my nose (thank God). Then I remembered that wasn't my whole name, and considering the kind of person I was talking to, I figured I might as well be specific. "I-I mean, Amelia F-Fletcher. I'm the m-moral support."

"Ah, of course."

Dr. Connors led us to his kitchen, and we passed through a pristine home with polished floors and perfectly decorated walls. Nothing seemed out of place, although I was having a hard time not staring at Dr. Connors arm, how it ended just above where his elbow should be, and wondering if I was a horrible person for this. Aside from the arm, Dr. Connors seemed to be in perfect health — I should be more concerned with myself.

I managed to distract myself with the kitchen facilities when we entered, admiring the trees outside the window, cherry blossoms starting to blooms. Being here reminded me how much I myself wanted to go home, collapse on my bed, and sleep. I was already exhausted by the bus ride, the day at school. Not even coffee, which I didn't even like anyways, would help me here.

"So, what did you want to know, Peter?" Dr. Connors asked as he reached for the teapot on the stove.

"Well, I know you worked together for OsCorp," Peter started to say leaning against the counter next to me. It was cold to the touch, white marble, and I wanted to press my over-heated forehead against it. "I found his old briefcase, his ID card. I just…I wondered if you knew what happened. What made him and Mom run."

"Run?" Dr. Connors quirked an eyebrow at the word, glancing over his shoulder at Peter as he reached for some mugs in a cabinet. "Well, that's an interesting choice of words."

He heaved a sigh, placing down the mugs before picking up the pot, maintaining ease and control with one hand as he poured tea into the cups. "I'm sorry to say this, but I'm not sure I can help you, Peter. I don't know why they left, or where they were going —"

Dr. Connors pulled back with the pot, but it bumped against one of the mugs and knocked it off the counter. I watched, almost in slow motion, as it fell, only for Peter to snap down and catch it, by the handle, with two fingers. He pulled back up, smooth as could be, not spilling a single drop.

I nearly jumped at the sight of it, and would've said something had Dr. Connors not done a double-take and commented, "Good reflexes."

"Oh, thank you." Peter just shrugged, like it was nothing, and when Dr. Connors turned around to return the pot, I nudged him in the ribcage. When Peter looked at me, I whispered, "W-what was that?"

"What was what?" Peter replied, all too innocent. He glanced between me and the mug, took a sip. "You should try some, it's good."

Peter wasn't fast. Or graceful. He was skinny, sure, but not necessarily in good shape. His record of skateboard injuries was a testament to that. Still, I couldn't exactly call him out on it, and I wasn't going to make a scene in another man's home. Instead, I just rolled my eyes and grabbed a cup, sniffing at it before trying the taste.

The tea was hot on my tongue, and it almost hurt to swallow. But the heat and the steam cleared up my nose, and for the first time in several days I could breathe a little better. I took another tentative sip as Dr. Connors came back around. Peter handed him the last mug and said, "I read your book."

"Oh?" Dr. Connors said, taking the mug.

"Yeah, yeah, it's, er, something," Peter nodded his head, his gaze casting down, and once more he was just the nervous little kid again, unsure of himself or his words. Where was that slick guy who caught a mug full of hot tea in mid-air? "Do you really think it's possible? Cross-species genetics?"

_Wait, what_? I brought up my head, surprised. Is _that_ what the algorithm is about? I hadn't even thought of asking what it meant, what he learned about it from reading Dr. Connors book. I took a mental note to read it myself. Still, I was skeptical, and over my mug, I muttered, "Sounds like something out of _Star Trek_."

"Of course! For years, we spent working on it," Dr. Connors never raised his voice, but there was a new enthusiasm there, as if it hadn't been years and years since he worked on it, that he still had hope. He gave me a short nod, apparently hearing what I said, adding, "And we received similar mockery, your father and I, for those theories. Not just in the community at large, but as OsCorp as well. They called us mad scientists. And then your father bred the spiders, combining different genomes from separate species, grew them from eggs and hatchlings…Why spiders? I don't know. Their resiliency, perhaps, their strength and size. And _everything_ changed. The results were beyond encouraging. They were _spectacular_.

"We were…" Dr. Connors sighed, a helpless ghost of a smile on his lips, as if recalling a nearly forgotten memory, a dream. "We were going to change the lives of millions. Including my own. Then it was over."

A pained look crossed his face. I was silent, watching the expressions flicker across his face as Dr. Connors continued, more quietly, "He — he was _gone_. Took his research with him. And I knew without him, I…" Dr. Connors looked down, brow drawing together, swallowed. "I-I was angry. So I stayed away from you and your family. And for that I'm truly sorry."

A silence fell in the room, no one really knowing quite where to look, or what to say. Peter himself seemed to be at a loss of words; maybe he wasn't prepared for that kind of honesty, the level of emotion in Dr. Connors words. He pressed his lips together, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finally saying, "Say — say it worked. Say y-you got it to work. How much would the, uh, the foreign species take over? What could the side effects be?"

I threw Peter another look. After hearing all this about his father, Peter wanted to know about the _side effects_ of what was potentially a fantastical improbability. What did it matter? I wanted to know the facts before Richard Parker left, maybe gather clues, not wonder what might happen that'll never happen.

Still, Dr. Connors considered the question seriously, shrugged one shoulder. "It's hard to say, considering no subject survived. The problem was always —"

"The Decay Rate Algorithm?" Peter interjected, nodding as if he anticipated this. Then again, it was the reason why he was here. Or one of them, anyways.

Dr. Connors blinked, looking mildly impressed. "Right."

"Right," Peter put down his mug, got up off the counter and walked around it, pointing a shaking finger to a pad of paper in the corner. "Can I, uh…?"

"Of course."

Peter sat down on a stool on the other side, whipping out a pencil and pulling the paper towards him. I leaned over, watching as he scrawled down the equation with incredible ease. He must know it by heart now.

Dr. Connors, curious, came over to see what he was doing. When Peter was done, he dropped the pencil and pushed the pad over to Dr. Connors, then sat back with his hands in his lap, like a student waiting judgement on his schoolwork.

"Extraordinary," Dr. Connors murmured, gazing over the completed algorithm with a look akin to awe on his face. He gazed back up at Peter, jaw agape. "How did you come up with this?"

Peter made a face, apparently embarrassed, then tapped the pencil to his head. I smirked and decided to add, "He's sm-smarter than he l-looks."

"Hey!" Peter complained, while Dr. Connors just chuckled, stepping back after admiring the algorithm again.

"Well, she's not wrong," Dr. Connors smiled, then focused a more serious look on him. "Peter, how would you feel about coming to see me at the tower some day after school? And you can bring your moral support, if she'd like to come as well."

"W-what?" Peter looked taken aback, and I reached across the counter to punch him in the arm to get him thinking again. He shook his head, as though he couldn't believe this turn of events; what had he been expecting before? A bewildered grin appeared on his face. "I mean, yeah! I'd love to, that'd be great. Anytime! I'm just glad I could help."

"Well, that's lovely to hear," Dr. Connors smiled, pleased, and was about to say something else when another voice interrupted him.

"Daddy?" a boy appeared in the doorway of the living room, gazing across the space with bleary eyes at the three of us. He seemed no more than five or six, and apparently having just woken from a nap. He yawned, big and heavy, before brushing the corn-silk blond hair from his eyes. "Who're those people?"

"Oh, that's Billy, my son," Dr. Connors looked a little beleaguered, and yet amused to have the boy walk in like this. He smiled in welcoming, though, to assure Billy nothing was wrong, as he went over and picked up the boy. "And these are Peter and Amelia. Can you say hello to them, Billy?"

"Hi," Billy clung to his father's neck, keeping his face turned away, a little too young, too shy to be facing strangers on his own. His gaze fell on me, and he asked, "Are you sick?"

"Uh." I glanced at Dr. Connors, as if there might be some protocol to talking to other people's children, before saying, "A little, yeah. Just a cold."

"You're very skinny," The boy remarked, as lightly and casually as any five-year-old would. "Is Daddy helping you?"

"_Okay_, I think that's enough for today," Dr. Connors chuckled, a little embarrassed, as he turned and carried Billy away, perhaps back to his room. I could hear his voice, fading, speaking to his son, "_Now, do you remember what I said about talking to strangers? What you're not supposed to say_?"

"_What they look like…_?" Billy's voice was frail, innocent, and completely unaware that he might've offended someone.

I wasn't. How could I get angry at a face like that? "Aw, he's so c-cute. I-I didn't know Dr. Connors h-had a son."

"Neither did I." Peter made a face, turning back around in his seat so he faced me again. He seemed to be having trouble containing a smile, and he seemed buzzing with energy, all over again. "But this is amazing, right? I-I did something that could change the world."

"I t-t-_told_ you this was your b-big break."

"Yeah, I know, but," Peter just pressed his hands against his face, pulling at his skin. "It just feels so real now. There's no turning back."

I gave him a funny look. "W-w-why would you want t-to turn back?"

Peter himself didn't look so sure. "I dunno. But I don't think it's going to be the same anymore. I'm going to be more than just Peter Parker, Nerd Extraordinaire. I can change the world now. I _am_ changing the world. That's good, right? Because I want to help people. I want to help y —" Peter stopped, his eyes widening at me, before glancing away. "Never mind."

"What?" I blinked, confused. "H-help who?"

But Peter wouldn't give. "Just forget —"

"Ah, well, now that's taken care of," Dr. Connors returned, inhaling through his nose and giving us a smile. "Sorry about that. Billy means well, he just doesn't quite know his manners just yet."

"Its f-fine," I said, while Peter's phone buzzed. "I've heard w-worse."

"Ah," Dr. Connors said, although his brow furrowed slightly at that. I had meant it to be reassuring, but I suppose it sounded the opposite. I was about to correct myself when Peter suddenly stood up, grabbing his bag.

"Just got a text from Aunt May," Peter said, although I was pretty sure it was directed at me. "We have to head out. She says Ben needs my help at home, and I don't think Hillary wants you out so long, especially since you're, you know, sick and everything."

"Psh," I wrinkled my nose, downing the last of my tea. "When a-am I not?"

Peter turned around, jolted a little when he realized Dr. Connor was still there. "Oh, man, I'm sorry, I forgot — we gotta go. The tea was great. I'm glad you listened."

"Oh, no, it was my pleasure," Dr. Connors just shook his head, not the least bit insulted. He was still smiling as he escorted us back to the front door. "Today has certainly been _enlightening_ for me, Peter. Your timing couldn't have been better. If you wish, I have time Friday if you can come to OsCorp. I'd love to show you our facilities — well, a better look than that tour you took."

"Thanks, man, this means a lot," Peter said, shaking his hand, before ducking out the door when Dr. Connors opened it.

I was just about to follow, halfway out the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Mia, could you wait a moment? I wish to say something."

Pausing, I brought my head around, frowning curiously at Dr. Connors, who looked a mite uncomfortable. What could he have to say to me? Really, this afternoon was about Peter — not that I was complaining — and I couldn't imagine what would be so important that he'd choose to speak privately about it, since Peter was well out of earshot now. "Is something wrong? Is it about Peter?"

"No, no," Dr. Connors said, then rectified, "Well, it's about his father. I remember now — Richard spoke of you a few times. His niece. Your early birth, the rampant illness. He spoke of your mother's worries, and although he never said it aloud, I always had the feeling that Richard felt helpless to aid you. Perhaps, as I hoped cross-species genetics could fix me, that he hoped it would bring you back to health as well."

"Oh." My gaze fell to a blank part of the wall; Peter's dad wanted to help me? It was such a strange concept, knowing I was important to a man I never really knew. "I never knew that. He thought he could make me better — permanently?"

"A possibility that still stands," Dr. Connors pointed out, a spark in his eyes, the same kind Peter might get when he had a really good (or really crazy) idea. Dr. Connors' tone was kind, but earnest when he said, "I want you to know that there is still hope, Amelia. I can't claim to know everything about your condition, but I know for a fact that very soon, maybe in less than a year, you will be living a different life. A better one. It'd mean very much to me that I could help."

I swayed on my feet, nonplussed. Was he right? Could Peter's discovery, could cross-species genetics really save my life? Faster, sooner than what Dr. Kane could provide? I hardly dared believe it.

But the look Dr. Connors gave me was so full of confidence, determination; he wanted to help me, too. He believed he could. And I wanted to, too. How could I crush it?

So I looked him in the eye and said, "I-I hope you're right, Dr. Connors. It would mean…_everything_, t-to me."

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

"So, anyone ask you to Prom yet?" Peter asked like he expected it to happen, popping a French fry into his mouth.

We had been stuck in silence so far, sitting the café in a corner booth and pretending that everything was completely fine. Soft, jingly music played from the jukebox, while other customer chatted quietly on the red bar stools next to the counter. If we were dressed in poodle skirts and leather jackets, we'd look like a scene from a cheesy 50's movie.

I glanced up at Peter over my milkshake, taking a sip. This was probably Peter's idea of a good ice-breaker.

It wasn't, but I humored him with a snort. "N-no. I don't p-plan on asking a-anyone, either."

"Really?" he threw me a skeptical look, smirking as he popped another French fry into his mouth. He tried to dip it in my milkshake, but I guarded it with my arms. "I thought you liked Harry. You could always ask him."

"He's in _Denmark_," I said, but Peter already knew. He was just teasing me. "The l-last time I-I saw Harry Osborn was when we were t-twelve, a-and I punched him in the nose. I d-doubt he wants t-to see me, of all p-people, again."

It was totally in self-defense, by the way, and the only time I had ever thrown a punch in my life; it was well-deserved, too. I hated the creepy masks that were hung in the Osborn manor, and apparently twelve-year-old boys thought it was funny to scare twelve-year-old girls by putting on those masks and jumping out of closets.

"Oh, yeah, I remember all the blood," Peter laughed, the corner of his eyes crinkling and shoulders shaking at the memory. Peter and Harry had been best friends back then, before Harry was shipped off to some scary-sounding boarding school across the Pond. "I've never seen that much before. I mean, it was the most badass thing you ever did, if it wasn't for Harry. We all thought he was going to die, remember?"

"Yeah," I said, ducking my head and hid my red face by pressed my lips to the glass of my cup. If some wooden masks were scary, then obscene amounts of blood gushing from a young boy's face was terrifying, made even worse by the fact that it was my fault. "G-Good thing it was only a b-broken nose."

"Well, on the bright side, now we all know not to play pranks on you," Peter pointed out. "Harry never tried scaring you again."

"That's b-because he moved to Denmark."

"Exactly."

A grin broke out across my face. I didn't know how, but Peter always seemed to know the right thing to say. "O-Oh, well, that makes me f-feel so much better. Scaring away b-boys with my _ferocity_," the sheer ridiculousness of the idea made us both laugh. "But anyways. A-Are _you_ going to ask a-anyone to Prom?"

"Hm," Peter examined at his half-eaten burger, taking a bite out of it even as I was looking at him, waiting for a reply. I raised my eyebrows as he continued to chew in thoughtful silence, apparently a 'no' but I saw a noticeable pink in his ears. He mumbled something around the burger but I didn't understand it.

"What was that?" I asked, leaning forward.

He swallowed hard, making a pained expression because the bite was so large. "Uh, I was thinking about asking, um, Gwen Stacy."

"Well, you've made the r-right headway." I asked, unable to hide the growing smile on my face. I smacked his arm, saying, "The q-question is if you're b-brave enough to admit y-you have a c-crush on her."

"What? Who-who-who said anything about _admitting crushes_? I just w-want to ask her out to Prom!"

"That's, like, the same thing, a-at least f-for guys like you."

"Guys like me? What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"I don't know, loner t-types? You're not exactly, uh, popular." I said, taking another sip of my drink. It was cold, strawberry — and just light enough that it didn't upset my stomach, too. "Wearing a-a hood in class d-doesn't help, either. Some p-people might think y-you're creepy."

"What? Really?" Peter ducked his head, lowering his voice to a whisper, looking incredibly self-conscious. "People think I'm _creepy_? Does Gwen?"

"I, uh, don't think so. You sh-should try it, though. Stretch out y-your wings or-or whatever."

"But what if she says no?"

"Look, I don't know what to tell you! Don't act t-too weird a-around her, at least n-not any weirder than y-you already are. Gwen is nice, and-and even if she does say n-no, at least she won't try t-to humiliate you like Sally Avril did l-last year." I sniffed, and Peter shuddered at the memory. Somewhere in last year's yearbook, there was a picture of Sally dumping her tray of food on Peter's head. I just shrugged, adding as an afterthought: "I-I don't even know w-why you're asking m-me for girl advice, I-I don't exactly know a-a lot, either."

"Well, I talked to her today, and I was _going_ to ask her, but —" Peter started, then shook his head, a pained look on his face. "Ugh, god, Ben told her about the picture on my computer, you know, with her on the Debate club? I just — and then he told her he was my probation officer! Mia, I wanted to _die_."

I had a hard time not smiling. "A-And what did Gwen, uh, say?"

"Well, I had to do damage control, obviously," Peter threw up his hand; I was guessing from his attitude that the conversation didn't go as he planned. "I made up some BS about touching up the picture, which I-I don't think she bought, to be honest—"

"I w-wonder why."

"Shut up. Anyways, yeah, it was completely weird and awkward, as you'd expect," Peter just threw his head in his hands, utterly defeated and face tomato red. His groan was long. "So I _tried _to ask her, but then it didn't really come out. _I never even said the words — _but then she said yeah!"

"She s-said yeah?" This was not where I expected this story to be going.

"I mean, she said yeah to the _idea_ of us doing something, you know, together," Peter said, holding out his hands and giving me a wincing smile. "Not specifically _Prom_, but, uh, _something_, you know?"

I had literally no idea what he was talking about. I played with the straw, frowning at him in concern. "And…what? Did you make a d-date? A-Agree to anything?"

"Um. No. I said I was busy."

"Peter!"

"What? She said she was, too! And I, like, got her number. Her _actual_ number, not like a fake, get-away-stalker number, too."

I just laughed, so tired and maybe a little embarrassed on his behalf. I palmed a hand over my face, shaking my head. "God, you're j-just hopeless, a-aren't you?"

"So, you think I should call her?" Peter gave me a crooked smile.

"Of course you should call her! Jeez, y-you don't need m-me to t-tell you that."

"But how do I ask about Prom?"

"I dunno. J-Just ask if she's, uh, doing anything th-that weekend." I just made a face. I didn't know how to do this stuff either; common sense was the best I could offer in this situation. "If any of her f-friends are going. If anyone's a-asked her. Use your d-dorky charm, she-she seems to like that."

"I'm not _dorky_." He sniffed.

"Uh, you're p-pretty dorky, Peter. You are th-the _definition_ of dorky." I held up a finger. "If you looked up 'dorky' in the d-dictionary, there w-would be a picture of your f-face right —"

He brought up his hand and pushed mine to the table. "Oh, shut up. Fine, I'm dorky, I accept that. There's nothing wrong with dorky."

"Of course n-not. Y-You wear it well." I was about to go on, maybe boost his ego a little more because why the hell not, but then I remembered what happened when I was last at school, and decided to bring it up. "Hey, th-the other day I-I found a load of D-Debate Club pamphlets in m-my locker. J-Just a bunch, spilling out. D-Do you know if-if anyone's been g-going around, filling lockers w-with them?"

"Uh, no, why?" Peter said lightly, resting his chin on his hand. His gaze rested on his food, and he stuffed several fries into his mouth at once. "You thinkin' of joining?"

"No. N-not really."

Peter raised his eyebrows, and for a second he seemed disappointed. But it was gone in the next moment. "Oh. How come? Because Gwen's in it, obviously, and I think maybe she'd like it if you joined."

"You mean you j-just want the b-brownie points of h-having me as her friend, s-so I can tell you st-stuff she says t-to me," I translated, and Peter flushed pink.

"What? No, that's not — I mean, it's a plus, sure, but that's not really —"

"I'm j-just joking, Pete," I said, before he could get himself all flustered again. "I-I just wished whoever was, like, st-stalking me about this w-would just tell me, you know? B-Because clearly _someone_ wants me t-to join. I-I don't know w-why they're being so weird a-about it; first Mr. Rand, th-then Gwen, and now these f-freaking pamphlets. I-It's like they're a-afraid to t-talk to me or something."

"Maybe you just, uh, intimidate them," Peter suggested, although it seemed rather half-hearted. "They don't want to make you angry, or something."

"In-Intimidate? Yeah, r-right." I was about to go on how ridiculous that sounded, but I was interrupted by a sudden coughing spell. It last for a good half minute, and when it was over, I was a little out of breath, dizzy. Withdrawing my elbow shielding my mouth, I could feel something warm drip down my face.

"Whoa, hey, take it easy." Peter leaned forward, his smile disappearing instantly. He reached over for the napkin dispenser and grabbed a handful before handing them to me. "Your nose is bleeding, Mia."

He sounded calm, even though bleeding noses wasn't exactly normal. Then again, my nasal track had been pretty dry lately, so I suppose I wasn't surprised that something dried up and cracked, bleeding. I took the napkins and pressed them to my face, pulling back once to observe the wet, red stains. "Huh."

Peter sat back in his seat, frowning. He seemed concerned with my lack of reaction. "Are you okay? I knew you were sick, but I didn't know how badly. Is it the flu again? You got your vaccines last year, right?"

"O-Of course I g-got my vaccines, I-I'm not an idiot," I said, bringing the napkins to my face again. At least this didn't hurt. "But I've b-been having congestion p-problems and other stuff. Mom th-thinks it's just a-a stomach bug. I'll be f-fine."

"Maybe we should go home," Peter suggested, and I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was little freaked out. As if the concern on his face wasn't already a dead giveaway. "This was a bad idea. I shouldn't have brought you out here."

"Oh, r-relax. I'm a b-big girl, I knew w-what I-I was doing," I muttered, hoping the bleeding would stop before I got home. If Mom saw this, then she was calling the doctor straight away, and I didn't want to put us through that strain again. "I-I made my ch-choice. And I-I'm having fun. It's fine. Let's j-just finish our f-food."

"Are you sure?" Peter's eyebrows pinched upwards.

"_Yes_, I'm sure. L-Look," I pulled down the napkins, seeing the blood flow had already stopped. "I'm not even b-bleeding anymore. I-I just look l-like a mess."

"I'll get some water," Peter seemed determined to fix the situation, though, and I couldn't convince him to not get out his seat and get a glass of plain water. I just sighed, slumping in my seat and going back to my smoothie. The back of my throat felt a little thick because of the nosebleed, but otherwise nothing had changed.

Peter came back a second later, and I dipped fresh napkins into the glass, using it to clean the blood off my face. I checked my reflection in the window, before turning back to Peter with a smile. "S-see? Good as new. Y-You worry too much."

He didn't look entirely convinced, but let the matter drop. "Well, if you say so. I still think you should go home, soon. In case, you know, there's an accident."

"I-I'm not a-a doll, Peter. I'm not g-going to break or-or g-get lost if I'm out for t-too long."

Unfortunately, we ended up leaving not too long afterwards. We had been out for only a couple hours; I hadn't even wanted to go in the first place, and now here I was, not wanting to go back home again. I guess I wanted out more than I thought.

Meanwhile, Peter practically had to drag me home. He was all twitchy again, as the sun started to set. We hadn't walked too far away from my apartment; Peter seemed tempted to reenter using the fire escape again, but there was no need, since no one was home and climbing the stairs was easier for me. Also, less terrifying.

We took our sweet time, with Peter constantly checking on me, as if I might collapse at any moment. I had to shake him off for the third time, on the fourth floor, saying, "Peter, for the last t-time, I'm _fine_. It was j-just a little n-nosebleed. I-I can make it to my f-floor on my own."

"Sorry, sorry," he mumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. Peter was nervous, but also withdrawn; he was thinking about something, something hard, and something that bothered him. I thought about prompting him, asking what was up, but couldn't figure out how I wanted to say it. By the time we reached the next floor, Peter had beaten me to it.

I wasn't expecting it, either, when he suddenly blurted, "Do you ever miss your dad?"

"I — what?" I did a double-take, pausing on the steps to throw him a funny look. Peter rubbed his face with his sleeve, looking quite unsure himself. "N-No. Not really. I've n-never even met him."

"Oh, no, I meant —" He grimaced. "Do you ever wish you knew him?"

I just snorted. "Why does it m-matter? I-It's not like h-he's coming back."

But the look on Peter's face, the hard press of his lips, his hunched shoulders, said that my answer was important to him. He just gave me a long, hard look, and I bit my lip, reconsidered. "…Well, I-I mean, I guess. I-I don't know. He d-ditched Mom as soon as she learned she w-was p-pregnant. J-Just walked right off the f-face of the earth. She d-didn't even know u-until later she didn't have an address for him, or-or even his real name. S-So no, I-I don't really want to know a guy like that."

"Even if he's your father?"

"He certainly didn't care," I retorted, anger tinging my voice. Why was Peter pressing this? "My mom was so upset she-she burned all her pictures of him. She won't even t-tell me the name he gave her. She doesn't want to find him, and she d-doesn't want _me_ to find him, either. Why? Why do you care?"

"I don't know," Peter just shrugged, turning away from me to scowl at the floor. He continued up the steps on his own, and it took me a moment before I followed him. "Sometimes I just wonder how things would be different if, you know, everyone was here. Our family, I mean. Your dad. My parents."

"I-I-I think the one we have is p-perfectly fine."

"You don't think you're missing out?" Peter fixed me with a disbelieving look over his shoulder. "You don't think that there's some possible world, a better world, where you have everyone, and they're there for you, and they know everything about you? That they can be proud of you?"

Mom was proud of me plenty, I didn't need anyone else's approval. I just scowled, but the feeling of anger abated when I realized what was really going on. It took me a moment to find the right words, and we climbed almost another floor before I could say them.

"It's o-okay to miss your p-parents, Peter."

He started to protest. "It's not about _me_ —"

"Peter, I-I love my mom. I love y-you, and-and Aunt May, and Uncle Ben. I w-wouldn't change that f-for the world. It's n-never bothered me that my d-ad i-isn't here, because I never n-needed him. What I have is-is enough. Y-You-You're enough. It's not worth t-time th-thinking about what m-might've been, what'll n-never happen. It's just…the p-past. It's over. W-we have w-what we have."

He heaved a long sigh out his nose, leaning heavily against the banister, perhaps accepting defeat. I came to a stop next to him, and we stood there for a moment, and I let him think. Peter rested his head against the wall, staring off into the distance. His voice was soft, almost hoarse. "You don't think we might've had a better life?"

I frowned. Was he talking about me, how sick I was? How it might've been easier, how I might be healthy, if Mom wasn't single and working on her own? That Peter might be living in a nicer home, with well-off, mildly famous parents? That we wouldn't be two loners growing up together in a world that only got stranger and stranger as time went on?

Maybe it was all that, and more. I didn't even know if I should be angry, upset, sad, or all three. I wanted to tell him it didn't matter, but it clearly did to Peter.

I had to be frank. "P-probably, yeah. But th-then you'd be a-a different Peter, a-a-and I'd be a different Mia. A-and I like you th-the way you are r-right now. Why, d-do you _want_ th-things to be different? D-do you want that p-perfect world?"

"Sometimes," Peter shrugged, turning his head slightly to look at me, still appearing discontent. He pushed off the wall, started moving again. "Everything just feels so…wrong, sometimes. Imperfect. And I wish I could fix it. Make it better."

"D-do you think _I'm_ im-imperfect?" My jaw tensed, and I wasn't sure I even wanted to say that, but it was too late. Is that what Peter meant? Was he unhappy with the way I was? Did he wish I was something, someone different?

"I — no." Peter hesitated, backpedaled. But I could see the panic in his eyes, the realization of what he just said. "I mean, it's just — it's difficult, sometimes. And it shouldn't be. Not for you."

"I c-can handle d-difficult," I said, terse. "I've b-been handling it all my life."

"So you're telling me," Peter asked, looking skeptical. "That not once, not once in your entire life, you wished it didn't have to be this way. That this life doesn't slow you down, that it doesn't make you feel like, that you feel like…"

He couldn't finish the sentence, maybe didn't have the guts, but I understood him nonetheless. I grit my teeth; I didn't like Peter questioning my opinion, and I liked even less that he had a point. That he was right.

I hated it. I hated being called out for being a hypocrite. I hated that he was right, that I was ungrateful, that I wanted something better, even though I already had more than I could ask for. That I didn't appreciate everything my mom, Peter, everyone has done for me, because of me, because of the way I was, and I just wanted a world that was easier for me to live in.

It was like a pounding in my head, that anger. It wasn't even at Peter, who provoked it. It was at myself.

"Y-yes." I admitted after a long silence, climbing up those stairs. We were almost to the top. Although my words were shaky, my voice was cold. "Yeah. S-sometimes I wish I-I wasn't this way. Sometimes it's too hard. Sometimes I feel like I'm just a-a burden, that everyone who sees me just—just sees some sick little girl who—who can't take care of herself. I've never felt big, or-or strong, or anything like that. Sometimes I-I hate that I don't have it."

I could feel Peter's eyes on me, the surprise, but I couldn't meet his gaze. My hands were fists and my steps were sharp and hard. He came to a stop at the tenth floor landing, bring up a hand to stop me. "Mia, I-I'm sorry, I didn't —"

"Whatever," I shook him off, making a beeline towards my door. I could hear Peter follow slowly behind me, him having lost his energy, while I burned.

I struggled with the lock, before it finally gave. In my frustration, I swung it open, didn't even stop as I stormed in.

Until I saw Mom, waiting for me with crossed arms in the living room.

She did not look happy. "I was wondering where you were."


	9. to the rescue

**Summary: **_Wanda and Pietro find an amnesiac Amelia in a Sokovian hospital. An alternative to Chapter 9 of Rebel Columbia._

* * *

**to the rescue**

* * *

"_Pietro, hurry up_!"

I shifted in the gurney, groaning in complaint at the voice disturbing my sleep. What was this, another nurse to check my vitals? Did they have to be so loud?

"_I am!_" a male voice replied, followed by the sound of snapping metal. "_There's a lot of tubes here..."_

I opened my eyes, squinting at the two presiding in my room. I had gotten used to the solitude, to the sight of nurses and doctors, so I was rather startled when I realized the man and woman in my room were, in fact, not a man and woman at all, but actually a boy and girl. Close to my age, and certainly not wearing anything like appropriate hospital gear.

The girl was closest to me, kneeling by the gurney, so we were about eye-level to each other. When I turned my head to look at her, she smiled and said, "Oh, you're awake! Just hold on, we'll get you out in a moment."

"...Who are you?" my voice was hoarse from lack of use, and my brain still lagging behind due to sleep. I frowned, trying to make sense of the brunette fiddling with something. It took me a moment to realize she was trying to undo the straps around my wrist. "What are you doing?"

"Breaking you out, of course." the male voice said, and I got a face to him when he appeared at the end of my bed, unnervingly fast, and started yanking on the straps around one of my ankles. He was tall and strange white hair, with a light stubble. He could be handsome, if he didn't look like a vagrant. "How the hell do you open these things?"

"Who are you?" I asked again as the girl suggested the boy undo the buckle first.

"We're your friends," The girl glanced at me, starting to frown when that got no reaction out of me. "...You don't remember?"

"Remember what?" I asked, trying to shift up in the gurney, but the chest strap was still keeping me down. I grunted, frustrated and sore, as a headache started to form. "I have no idea who you are. Or where I am. Or why I'm here."

"Shh," the girl pressed a hand to my forehead, and I was startled by how cold it was. "You'll be all right. We'll explain everything, but first these stupid straps have to come off."

The boy, Pietro, yanked uselessly at my ankle, before throwing up his arms and saying, "Ugh, it's pointless!"

"Come on!" the girl urged. "We don't have a lot of time. Someone's going to come around eventually!"

Pietro snapped something back and for a minute or two they bickered, while I just lied there helplessly. Their fight wasn't helping with the headache, so eventually I just snapped, "Will you stop, please? It's not that hard. You just have to lift the velcro first, then pull it out and undo the buckle."

"Oh." the two frowned, abruptly silenced. Luckily, though, they were good listeners, because two minutes later I was getting up, bending my knees and elbows and finally getting to work out the kink in my back that's been bothering me since I got here. I was still wobbly, though, thanks to lack of movement, and the two helped me stand while I regained my balance.

They were so patient and helpful, it actually creeped me out. "What...what do you guys want? Who are you?"

"She's Wanda," the boy said.

"He's Pietro," the girl said.

"We're twins," they finished in unison.

"Oh, good, that explains so much," I muttered, sarcastic. Standing up now, I was lightheaded and woozy. "N-need water. My head hurts."

Wanda left my side briefly to get a cup of water from the side table, while Pietro supported me. It took me a while to notice we were almost of equal height, if I could stand up straight - which made no sense. If anything, I should've been shorter than Wanda.

She returned, pressing the paper cup to my lips. As I drank, she said, "We've been looking all over for you. Then we heard the news. Strange girl tried to break out of hospital. Your face was on TV. People thought it was a funny story, but we knew we had to get you out. We don't have a lot of time before they catch up to us."

"Who?" I nearly choked on my water before finally managing to swallow it. "Do you mean the doctors? Because I'm pretty sure this is illegal."

The twins paused, their bodies going tense and still, like animals about to bolt. Wanda flashed me a wary look. "...would you rather stay?"

I was surprised by the sudden change in the air, the fear and animosity they suddenly displayed. I realized I had absolutely no idea what was going on, and even less of a grasp on just who these twins were and what they were like. Certainly way more paranoid than I expected.

I shook my head. "No, no way. I want to leave. Now."

"Good," Pietro said, helping me along to the door. By the time we reached it, I could stand on my own two feet again, although I still felt like I might fall over at any second, an unstable sculpture about to collapse. "Did you tell them your name?"

It took me a moment to remember. "No. Just my first name. I couldn't remember all of it at the time."

"That means they probably haven't figured it out, yet," Wanda said from behind as Pietro peeked out the door, making sure the way was clear before we could step out.

"Which means they don't know you're here." Pietro concluded as we started down an empty hallway. This made absolutely no sense to me, but I was getting a little used to it by now.

"They who? The police?"

"Worse," Wanda said.

"Who's worse than the police?"

Wanda looked like she was about to answer, but Pietro suddenly pulled back, pushing us against the wall before we could cross a corner. Before I could complain about the rush, two doctors walked past, deep in conversation, and didn't notice us at all as they continued down their path. As soon as they were out of earshot, Pietro ducked out from the corner and went down the way the doctors came from.

* * *

**A/N: Deleted Scene. In this version, Wanda and Pietro break Mia out of the hospital themselves. I ended up scrapping this idea as I couldn't explain how the twins would've found out Amelia was there, when they were convinced she had already died miles away.**


	10. denouement

**Summary: **_Amelia invites Dmitri to a winter fair, on his last day in New York City. Takes place between Rebel Columbia and Bitter Protocol._

* * *

**denouement**

* * *

_Plok!_

The buzzer went off. Missed again.

Dmitri cursed under his breath.

He had one last dart. He hoped to make it count.

"One to go!" The booth vendor called out, clearly enjoying the show. Maybe he liked watching people suffer. At this point, Dmitri wouldn't be surprised.

"You got this," Mia said, standing just behind him.

The colorful balloons on the wall of the carnival booth seemed to mock him. Bright, cheerful colors, frustratingly difficult to pop. The leering vendor certainly didn't help.

The weather was unseasonably warm on that January day — a brisk forty-two degrees Fahreinheit and perfect for a wintry fair day. The place was bustling with people this early in the evening. The air was filled with the scent of sweet fried dough, cotton candy, and some kind of grilled meat. The amount of people made the place feel just a few degrees warmer, which didn't hurt. Not that the cold bothered him too much, anyways.

Eyeing one of the larger ones — the easy targets — Dmitri sized up the distance, and slung his final dart.

And watched it bounce off the surface of the balloon. The dart clattered uselessly to the floor, out of sight.

"Oh, nice try!" The vendor called. "Next customer!"

Dmitri couldn't hide his disappointment, a sigh leaving his lips. He'd never been particularly good at throwing; aiming wasn't exactly a strong suit. Maybe he should've picked baseball, or football, instead of ballet.

More importantly, Dmitri had failed in his attempt to impress Mia. Stupid and sophomoric, entirely predictable for a boy his age? Absolutely. Dmitri would never admit to being a victim to the same tropes as so many other teenagers. He had hoped himself better than that, and considered this result just deserts for his arrogance.

Mia had invited him to the Coney Island fair; Her, her cousin Peter, and a small group of their friends, few of which Dmitri knew. But it was alright; it was just Dmitri and Mia, now, exploring the fairground on their own. He wanted to tell her she looked stunning — even though he'd seen her wear that red peacoat before, with the frilly white scarf, it looked different under the darkening sky, the flashing carnival lights. The color brought out the pink in her cheeks and the slight gold touches in her hair.

But Dmitri felt such a complement, as honest as it might be, was too forward. So he said nothing aside from a smile. Just standing there with her made Dmitri feel several degrees warmer. His cheeks flushed, and it had nothing to do with the cold air.

And to think he almost denied the invite. Dmitri wasn't sure why, some combination of shyness and anxiety. He'd never been to Coney Island, wasn't sure what to expect. Or why Mia invited him. But with his stay in New York drawing to a close, Dmitri decided to accept on a whim, had withstood an hour of his mother's lecturing just to go. She'd been okay with the idea, up until Dmitri made the mistake of telling her who'd invited him.

Eventually, however, she came around. Just one night of fun, before his flight home to St. Petersburg. For the first time in… years, perhaps, Dmitri was _dreading_ the trip, didn't want to leave. For the first time, he wanted to stay in New York.

Just to see Mia again.

It was Dmitri's last day in America. He intended to make the most of it.

...His plan was already dead in the water before it even had a chance to take off, though. This was not a good start to the evening. Dmitri almost expected Mia to make fun of him, or perhaps tease him slightly.

But Dmitri knew she wouldn't. She wasn't that type of person. It was one of the reasons he felt completely comfortable around her (if a little nervous).

"Alright, let me try," Mia said, handing the vendor a dollar bill, and getting three darts in return. She was also the type of person to find _challenges_ where there were none, Dmitri realized belatedly.

The vendor chuckled at the trade, glancing between the two of them in unveiled glee. "Ah! Let's see if the lady's luck is any better than the gentleman's!"

He immediately recognized the look in her gray eyes. One of murder. "Uh, wait, you don't have to do that —"

"And be defeated by his smug grin?" Mia threw him a single raised eyebrow, cocking her head towards the vendor, just out of earshot. "I don't think so."

Dmitri wanted to argue a little, personally more worried that she'd aim for the vendor and not the balloons — but decided to drop it, as Mia was already readying herself into a proper throwing stance. She eyed the wall of balloons with narrowed eyes. Picking her target. The smallest ones, higher up, were the hardest to hit; yet the direction her eyes were looking said this was exactly what she was going for.

About to warn her, Dmitri had only just opened his mouth when Mia's arm shot forward. With a loud _pop!_ The closest yellow balloon burst.

Dmitri jolted in surprise; he didn't even _see_ the dart, Mia had thrown it so fast. He immediately reordered his thoughts, and was thinking of a compliment when Mia launched her next two in quick succession. The same as the first time, mere blurs in the air, followed by two loud pops.

A few whoops rose up around them, onlookers clearly impressed. The vendor, too, looked somewhat taken aback, but just shrugged and happily handed over one of the stuffed animals hanging from the ceiling when Mia pointed at one.

A giant stuffed wolf. It was almost as big as her, and Mia grinned around giant fluffs of black fur as they walked away with their prize. Dmitri was even more surprised when she offered it to him. "Here, it's yours."

Dmitri flushed, holding up his hands in bewilderment. It was _her_ prize, she earned it. "What? No, I couldn't —"

"I can win a thousand more of these if I wanted to," Mia said with a shrug, and more or less _pushed_ the toy into Dmitri's arms. He had no choice but to take it. She just shrugged, as if this victory was of no great cost. "Just, er, think of it as a 'going away' gift."

"First you invite me here," Dmitri said, finally accepting with a laugh and a shake of his head. He couldn't deny that he was touched by the gesture. "And now you're winning prizes for me. I can't tell if you like me, or just pity me and my poor aim."

"What? I don't _pity_ you," Mia snorted, hooking her arm through his as they went along. She leaned in with an undertone and added, "Although your aim _is_ pretty bad."

"Ah, and the other shoe drops."

"Hey, I'm glad you came," Mia said, casting him a rare smile. "I was afraid I wouldn't get to see you again before you left."

"Of course. I'd never say no to you." Dmitri said. A shameless, bald-faced lie, considering how close he'd been to just staying home. Only too late did Dmitri realize his lie was even worse than the truth.

...Mostly because it wasn't a lie, either.

"O-oh?" Mia's eyebrows shot up, clearly not expecting this answer. Her smile pressed flat, her gaze shooting forward. At the drop of a hat, her expression turned quietly, pleasantly, _infuriatingly_ neutral once more. Dmitri couldn't even think of a way to backpedal before she said, "Well, I'll keep that in mind, then."

_Please don't. _Too late. Dmitri just had to live with it now. And hoped it didn't come back to bite him in the ass.

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

Eventually, they reconnoitered with the rest of Mia's friend group, who corralled the two into a mass exodus upon the Ferris Wheel. Peter, whom Dmitri already knew, along with Ned, a stout, jovial boy who chatted endlessly to anyone who would listen. A girl who introduced herself as Liz smiled prettily at Dmitri, and they made small talk about his dance career. The others, a blonde girl named Betty, and a boy who went by Flash who unsuccessfully tried to pose against a railing and slipped, had also joined the group.

They split into couples, Mia and Dmitri making a natural pair. Ned looked like he was about to fly to the moon when Liz took him by the arm for a ride. Others were not so lucky. Peter had the misfortune of getting a chair with a sour-faced girl with curly hair and paint on her jeans (who Mia called 'MJ', but no one else did). Peter shot Mia a desperate look, but Mia just waved him off, no mercy in her eyes.

"Is he alright?" Dmitri asked as they watched Peter and Michelle get on the Ferris Wheel ahead of them.

"Oh, he'll be fine," Mia said with a decidedly evil chuckle. "Peter's a little afraid of MJ, but she likes him more than most people."

"She doesn't seem to like anyone." Of the entire group, Michelle was the only one who looked like she didn't want to be there.

"Exactly."

Then the line cleared, and it was their turn. For some inexplicable reason, Dmitri's anxiety skyrocketed as soon as the carnival attendant brought down the bar over their heads. Dmitri couldn't remember if he was afraid of heights or not.

Well, too late now.

The Ferris Wheel began to move again, pulling the seat backwards, the long way around to the top. Mia looked up, watching in mild interest as Betty and Flash argued in the seat above them. They were too far away for Dmitri to make out their conversation, but judging by the smirk on Mia's face, she seemed amused by it.

"Hey, Goose!" A voice called up from above. "Say cheese!"

Both of them looked up in time to see a Polaroid camera aimed at them. Dmitri didn't even have time to think — his first instinct at the sight was to smile, and was immediately blinded by the flash for his trouble.

"Peter!" Amelia called as soon as the camera disappeared. "I told you, no ambush pictures!"

"I couldn't help it, it was a good shot!" Peter called, leaning over the back of his seat to grin and wave at the two below. He gestured to the air next to him. "Besides, it was her idea!"

Michelle peeked her head over and smiled, making an elaborate gesture of cranking her finger up to flip them off.

Mia gasped in mock betrayal. "Traitor!"

From much further up, Flash's voice echoed, "_What the hell are you losers doing down there?_"

Peter and Michelle laughed. When she saw Dmitri was laughing too, Mia smacked his arm. "Hey, don't encourage them!"

The torment, thankfully, would end soon. The Ferris Wheel creaked to a gentle stop at the top of its cycle; the seat swung idly beneath them, and Mia turned her head to face the sunset. It cast a brilliant orange-gold hue across the Atlantic — the entire city. Skyscrapers were turned into giant beacons as their heavy glass sides reflected the light. Above, the sky faded from red to pink to blue to black. Shadows were cast long and deep, a vibrant purple. Looking down, the Ferris Wheel became a network of web-like shadows, stretching out across the fairgrounds until it was rendered virtually unrecognizable by the shape of the land.

Although Dmitri could feel the temperature dropping as the sun began to fade, he didn't mind. The beauty of the moment lied right before him. He didn't see the sunset, or the multi-colored clouds, or the fantastic skyline. Dmitri, instead, found himself staring at Mia.

Her face was turned away from him, and backlit by the sun she was little more than a silhouette; the dying light reflected off the loose blonde hair around her head, individual strands lit up like fire. The sunset had given her a halo, and Dmitri couldn't tear his eyes away.

And her hand, resting right next to his. Dmitri was highly aware of how close it was for the past minute; he'd been working up the will this entire time, trying to find the courage to reach out and hold her hand.

Right there. Right there. He could do it. Surely it'd be fine. Mia wouldn't react badly to it. Dmitri was pretty sure, at least. Hopefully she wouldn't find it too weird. She wasn't wearing gloves. Neither was he. Hopefully that wouldn't be a problem.

Dmitri shifted his hand, fingers reaching for hers.

The Ferris Wheel groaned, and shifted forward. At the same time, Mia turned back to look at him again. Dmitri took one look at her brilliant smile and lost his nerve. Trying to make it look natural, his hand overshot hers, and caught around the handlebar in front of them.

The moment, lost.

"What did you think of that view?" Mia asked, fidgeting slightly in her seat. Something about the height, the scenery, had energized her. Dmitri couldn't recall the last time he'd seen her so… happy.

"Stunning," was all Dmitri could think to say. He was too busy mentally kicking himself.

It was, at least, the right thing to say. Mia laughed a little. "Not so bad for your last day in New York, right?"

To emphasize her point, she nudged him slightly with her shoulder, just a light bump. But Dmitri felt like a leaf in the wind. If the handlebar hadn't been there, the force of her touch surely would've sent him plummeting right off the Ferris Wheel.

Despite his failure, Dmitri was glad when they reached the bottom and were able to disembark the ride.

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

Dmitri supposed it would be easier to just _tell_ her, but he wasn't sure he could be so bold.

But when else would he have the chance? Dmitri knew he'd probably see Mia again, whenever he returned — but he didn't know _when_ that would be. And whose to say she hadn't already moved on by then. He didn't want to wait. He didn't want to have regrets.

This was very serious talk for a sixteen-year-old boy.

_Maybe that's problem_, Dmitri told himself, as he and Mia got ice-cream after the Ferris Wheel. _I'm taking this too seriously. _

They'd split from the rest of the group, who'd gone to a local pizza shop for a large pie or two. Dmitri wasn't that hungry, and it had been Mia's choice to hang back while the rest went on ahead. The ice-cream had been his treat, a thanks for the stuffed wolf.

"How come you didn't want to go with them?" Dmitri had asked out of mild curiosity.

"Dunno," Mia murmured, almost to herself. They were side-by-side, leaning against a railing that overlooked the boardwalk, the beach beyond. Night had settled over the city now, pale green light pollution fading into a deep velvet black on the flat horizon of the sea. Her gaze was focused somewhere out there, cone clasped between her two hands. "I'm not a fan of big groups, makes me antsy. And Flash was pissing me off."

"You _did_ look a little homicidal at the end, there."

That made her laugh. A throaty, ringing sound — brief, but strong and hearty. The sound of it made Dmitri feel tremors in his chest; He knew it was genuine because it sounded so unlike her usual sotto voce. "That obvious? Yeah, I can only listen to so much talk about Italian race cars and the quality of room service at the Ritz before I start to lose it."

Flash had indeed talked at length about his affluent lifestyle; he and Ned competed on that score, although Ned had a decidedly different choice of topic (Dmitri didn't understand what a Mandalorian was, though). It had only become grating when Flash ended up dominating the conversation, and kept changing the topic to himself whenever it strayed.

"By the way, let me see that picture," Mia added, holding out her hand. "The one that Peter took on the Ferris Wheel."

Dmitri pulled it from his pocket. He'd wondered why Peter had given it to him and not to her. "I thought it was a nice photo. Ambush and all. You looked good in it."

_Oh, daring. _Dmitri had only meant it to reassure her, but he feared it came out as an explicit complement.

"Debatable," Mia said, until she studied the photo for herself. It was a high angle shot of the two of them in their seat. It was remarkably well-lit, both their faces easy to see, with pleasant smiles. Mia included, Dmitri had been surprised to find. A genuine one, it seemed, the way her eyes crinkled. "Hmm. Okay, so I stand… corrected. It's not that bad."

"You just don't want to admit that Peter was right about it being a good shot," Dmitri said with a wry smile. He was starting to grow wise to some of Mia's behaviors.

Mia cast him a sidelong glance, but she seemed to be fighting a grin. "Absolutely not. The only reason he gave that to you was because he was worried I'd rip it up."

Dmitri took the photo back and examined it a little closer, angling it better under the street lamp. Peter was an excellent photography, he decided upon realizing how perfectly it was taken, the scaffolding of the Ferris Wheel framing them in the shot, the hazy lights of the carnival blow adding a kind of fairytale atmosphere to it all. He glanced up at Mia. "Would you?"

Mia pursed her lips, but didn't hesitate: "No. I'd never ruin his art."

"And it doesn't hurt to be a little intimidating," Dmitri added.

"No, it doesn't," Mia said with a knowing look, mollified. She nodded towards the photo, "And Poloroid film is expensive. It'd be a waste of money."

"Your concern for his financial expenses is touching." Dmitri couldn't help a sarcastic remark, and Mia bumped his shoulder again to reciprocate. He laughed and raised the photo, asking, "Do you mind if I keep this, then?"

"Oh, it's all yours," Mia replied with a shake of her head. "Besides, if Peter or May found out that I kept that, I'd never live it down."

"What, you don't keep pictures of me in your room?" Dmitri asked, pretending to be offended.

Mia threw him a funny look. "Do _you_ keep pictures of _me_?"

"No," Dmitri said, and quickly tucked the photo away before Mia could change her mind. He couldn't hide a mischievous grin. "But I never had one until now."

"I — oh," Mia blinked once, and immediately averted her gaze, suddenly fascinated with her ice cream. She stumbled over her words in an uncharacteristically clumsy manner. "Well, that's — that's nice of you. _Evil_. Of course. But I… you know. Nice, too."

The shift was a little bizarre and Dmitri didn't quite know what to make of it. If he didn't know any better, he'd say she was _embarrassed._ A state he'd only seen a few times, tops. He wasn't sure what to say, but it did make him laugh a little.

"What?" She asked, frowning at him.

"It's nothing, you just…" Dmitri reached out, and with his forefinger gently brushed a bit of ice cream off the tip of her nose. "... have something on your face."

Mia jumped, ever so slightly. More out of surprise than anything. Eyes widening, a sort of strange pallor drawing her face. For a split second, she appeared like a deer in the headlights, still, unmoving. Thinking.

Before Dmitri could ask her what was wrong, her hand shot up, cone in hand. And bapped him right on the nose.

Dmitri recoiled in surprise. "Wha —"

Without pause, Mia said, "So do you."

She was right. The blow hadn't been hard — not even a blow at all, just a light graze, enough to leave some of her own ice cream behind. Dmitri, caught completely off guard, wiped his hand across his face and stared at her. Mia jolted slightly, horror dawning across her face, as if just now realizing what she had done.

They stared at each other in mutual shock.

Then started to laugh.

It began small, a strange, instinctive snort. First Dmitri, and then Mia, trying and failing to smother a giggle. From there, it was all over. Infectious, exponential, rising fast and sudden until they were both keeled over the railing, laughing so hard it was difficult to speak.

"I'm sorry," Mia wheezed, and when she looked up, she raised a hand to his face, "Wait, you missed a bit —"

Mia never got to finish because as soon as she brushed Dmitri's face with her sleeve, they both started to break down again.

"You — you gotta hold still — oh my god —" In her attempt to clean his face mid-laugh, Mia dropped her ice cream, and instead of being a defeat, it started another round of hysterics.

A few times, it looked like things were finally calming down again, before the two made the mistake of looking at each other, which immediately incited more laughter. Dmitri didn't think of how loud they were until he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and realized an adult couple was staring at them. Well, more like _glaring_.

Mia, noticing Dmitri had just swallowed his next laugh, looked over and spotted the couple. Not wasting a second, she lifted her hand up to them.

Dmitri, recognizing the gesture she was about to make, acted fast. He caught her hand with his, pulling it down before she could give them the bird. "No, no, let's not do that."

And then just… didn't let go of her hand.

Mia glanced at him in surprise, and for a moment Dmitri thought she'd just use her other limb. But she didn't. Mia just glanced down at their hands together, then back at the group who'd given them the stink eye.

"Killjoys," Mia muttered, casting one last sharp look at the passerby before they left.

She didn't let go, either.

They both fell against the railing again, red-faced and exhausted. It seemed, at last, that the hysterics had finished. Until they glanced at each other again and shared a secret smile. Dmitri had to duck his head, shoulders shaking as he smothered another laugh. His face and stomach hurt, and he was quite out of breath. His ice cream, too, had fallen to the ground — initially an act of solidarity, but had only made things worse.

"Let's not tell anyone that happened," Mia said, eyeing the pair of cones, now food for ants. Or rats.

"I don't think they'd believe me anyways," Dmitri replied, running a hand over his mouth and his aching cheeks. "The real Mia Fletcher would never laugh that hard."

"Hmmm," She cut him a suspicious look, considering it. "Fair. But you can't kill an idea once it's out there. First the rumors will start, and then who knows what will happen next. Better they don't know."

"That's very paranoid of you." Dmitri snorted. "The Conspiracy of the Girl Who Never Laughed."

"I do like a good conspiracy," Mia nodded in satisfaction. Then she sighed, earning a questioning look from Dmitri. Seeing it, she seemed to grow self-conscious, glancing away and shrugging her shoulders. "It's nothing."

Dmitri mimicked her and shrugged, too. "Doesn't seem like nothing."

"It's…" Mia frowned, a slight pinch in her brow. She looked at him for a long moment, not saying anything. At first Dmitri thought she was angry or upset for some reason, until she took a deep breath and said, "I'm glad you're here."

He tilted his head. "You said that already."

"Well, that's because I mean it," She replied, in a somewhat stern tone. Then Mia looked down. At their hands, perhaps, but Dmitri was too busy studying her face, trying to read it. It had reverted to its usual impassiveness, although the way her brow worked, she seemed to be deep in thought. "I'm just going to miss you, that's all."

Her hand was cold in his.

"Oh," Dmitri said, blinking in surprise. That was not what he imagined her to say, in any lifetime. He struggled for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts, to find the right words, but found everything very scattered in his head. "I — well, I'm — I'm going to miss you, too."

Saying that felt like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, leaving felt very, _very_ real, and far too soon. Eventually, this night would end and he'd say good-bye and it'd be the last they'd see of each other. Not forever, but for a while.

Perhaps sensing this, Mia's hand tightened around his. A gentle squeeze.

It helped Dmitri forge on. "But it'll be alright. I'll be back eventually, and we can still call, or write, or —"

"What, like pen pals?"

Dmitri laughed. "Yes, sure, pen pals, why not."

His fingers interlocked with hers.

Mia smiled again, the genuine kind just like in the photo. "I'd like that. Get ready to not understand a thing I write, though."

"It's not so bad. You just have to get the trick of it."

Slowly, or perhaps all too quickly, they had been drawing closer together. Dmitri didn't even realize it until how big those gray eyes had gotten, freckles like stars, felt her soft breath on his face.

Inches away.

Closed eyes. Leaning in.

Almost...

"Hey Mia!" A voice cut through the air. Rushing footsteps. "Dmitri! Guys!"

Like two magnets of the same polarity, they yanked apart. Hands flying away, faces flushed, looking at anything but each other. Specifically, at Ned, who'd just run up to them, panting.

"There you guys are!" He came to a stop in front of them, leaning on his knees to catch his breath. "We'd been looking all over for you. The bumper car arena just opened up, you in or what?"

"I — what?" Mia grimaced slightly, pinching the bridge of her nose as if she had a headache, hiding her face from view. "Uh, yeah, sure."

Ned looked to Dmitri, and it took him a long moment that he was expected to answer, too. He didn't want to. Not really. A mix of emotions were swirling through his head and it was hard to think through it all. But he didn't know what else to say. So he said, "Sure. Love to."

He sounded decidedly unenthusiastic, but if Ned noticed, he gave no heed. Just gave them a big grin and whooped, "Awesome, full team! Let's go!"

Both watched Ned take off without following. Not immediately, anyways. Dmitri glanced at Mia, but looked away before she could return it. For a split second, he thought they might've kissed. That she would let him. But now he'd never know.

Mia was the first to move, taking a deep breath and following Ned's receding form. Dmitri stared at the back of her head, hand flexing, cold where hers had been, working over a thought in his head.

But took it back.

And followed her. It was already too late.

The moment, lost.

Never to be found again.

* * *

**A/N: *wheezing* I'm really bad at writing fluff**

**Short story inspired by ****Charmanderisacutie** **on Tumblr! A very excellent idea that I think pairs nicely with Chapter 32 of Bitter Protocol. ALSO apparently the Coney Island amusement park isn't open during the winter but it's FINE — in the MCU it is :P**


	11. daybreak

**Summary: **_Bucky visits someone he once knew in New York City. Coincides with Chapter 34 of Bitter Protocol, so here be spoilers._

* * *

**daybreak**

* * *

As the first light of day pierced through the horizon, the man who went by no name was already walking the streets.

He did not take a cab, or the subway. Walked those eerie, empty streets. All he carried on him was an old newspaper clipping. A name, a date. A location. But not a target. This person was already dead. The date was already past. But the location, it was still there.

A cemetery in Queens.

One last visit. To apologize.

It would take him a good part of the day to reach it. Some stops along the way. For food. Then again, when he saw a single red petunia sticking out of someone's flowerbox. Then a piece of lavender. Some daisies.

It wasn't much. But it was something.

He did not expect to see the other grave when he got there.

The dates… didn't feel right. Something was off. But it didn't change the fact that she was dead. They both were. And he had nothing to give for the second one.

Wretched, desperate, he searched his pockets. Something. _Anything_. The flowers were for the mother, but not enough for her. Finally, his fingers clinked against something metal. He pulled out an old bullet casing. Couldn't remember how he got it.

It didn't feel enough. But it did seem appropriate, as he rested it atop the second grave. Like he was making a promise. That he wouldn't forget. That he wouldn't let it happen again.

Footsteps.

Coming in fast.

He left then, quickly, quietly, before the newcomers could see him. It was best not to be seen, especially in places where he was the only one there. That part is easy at least. It's almost second nature.

When he reached the treeline, he looked back. Saw two heads amongst the stones, one dark and one blonde.

He hesitated, looks again. _No, it couldn't be…_

She turned.

He ducked behind a tree, breath caught in his throat. But his heartbeat evens out just as fast. His eyes did not deceive him.

As he slipped out of the cemetery, he decides that, perhaps, he may stay in Queens a little longer.


	12. cradled

**Summary:** _The Winter Soldier and the Soldatka return from a long outdoor mission__. Coincides with Chapter 41 of Bitter Protocol, so here be spoilers._

* * *

**cradled**

* * *

A bitter wind whipped up at the thin layer of snow covering the frozen ground. Bits of ice cut into their faces, but the _Soldat_ did not flinch or tuck his head away from the onslaught. It had been a long time since he'd breathed fresh air, and the cold had already sunk in too deep to hurt anymore.

The world shifted in and out, a white wasteland. A memory. A dream. Long ago, perhaps. It was never easy to tell.

He could hear her walking behind him, footsteps crunching beneath the screaming gales, trying to match his prints in the snow. He led the way, guiding them back to the Crucible after a long outdoor excursion.

It had been successful. She had killed her first target and so far had survived the trip. Entirely on foot, to cover their trail, to remain hidden. Dozens of miles covered alone. A test of skill, but endurance was not a skill the same way target practice was. A part of it was innate. A part of it could not be taught. Only pushed to grow.

Coming to a stop, the Soldat took a moment to gauge his surroundings. Above them, the sky was an endless white sea of thick cloud cover. It had been like this for most of the mission, with no indication of time outside of their own internal clocks. But it was starting to dim now, the clouds turning a blue-gray. The sun was setting. Night would fall soon. The difficult part of the journey had not yet been completed.

"_Keep close. Do not get lost in the dark_." He said, frowning up at the trail they still had to follow. It had been covered by recent snowfall and the recent drop in temperature meant the topmost layer would be frozen into a solid sheet of ice. Each step he had to punch through, leave her a trail to follow. Difficult to traverse but not impossible. Just slow.

When he got no response, the Soldat said, "_Понял_?"

_Understood? _Only silence. The echo of a frown pulled at his features, and he turned to the girl — she was further back than he realized, still hiking up to his position, fighting against the headwind. Her gait was heavy and awkward, body hunched and shivering, arms hugging herself and head hanging, not looking where she was going. If she had heard him, she gave no heed.

He saw it before it happened, when she lifted her head, eyes closed. Didn't open again. When her knees buckled mid-step.

She fell. His hands caught her before she could crash into the drift.

She was already unconscious when he lifted her up, her head hanging limp, eyes closed, breath shallow. Still alive, at least. Entirely exhausted, sapped of all strength and energy after a near full week outdoors, in the dead of winter. They had run out of packed food three days ago and had to hunt on their own for more. An intended lesson, to teach her how to survive on her own, to provide for herself when resources ran dry. A lesson she learned well — they did not find much to each up here, no life this high up in the mountains except for the smallest of creatures. She had subsisted on hares and rats. In all respects, it would have been impressive. Would have pleased the Crucible to see this test of her endurance.

But Black Diamond mountains were brutal, and it was her first winter here. She had not felt the same cold as the Soldat had, not yet. It hadn't seeped inside her, taken root. Perhaps it will in the future, but today had gone too far. She had reached her limit and collapsed, for the first time since she entered the Crucible. .

The Soldat was quietly surprised it had not happened sooner. She had not wanted to give up. Her body made the choice for her.

The Crucible would not like this. Collapsing was a weakness. She could not afford to be weak.

Looking up, the Soldat judged what remained of their journey. His options. It was another day's walk before they would reach the compound. It would take most of the night, and it would get only colder then. In her state, the girl would not make it. It was protocol to cull the weak.

But he could not leave her.

Wind and ice cut at him, frosting his fingertips, creaking in the joints of that metal arm. The girl shifted slightly, a murmur at her lips, but too faint to understand. The Soldat did not mind carrying her. He did not speak, did not try to wake her up. The Crucible would not be pleased by this. Secretary Pierce would see this as something to be punished. Her for failure. Him for giving in.

_Giving in to… what?_

The Soldat cast that thought aside before it could bother him again. Irrelevant. He had a priority. To teach her. And she could not be taught if she was dead. Either by the elements or at the end of a gun. Possibly to be locked in cold storage forever. The Crucible would not be picky.

But perhaps they did not have to know.

So the Soldat picked her up — cradled in his arms, the girl looked so small, so _young_, so like — and started to walk once more.

Back to the Crucible, where she would live — to learn, to fight — another day.

* * *

**A/N:** **This was the original version of this scene that I was going to put in the beginning of chapter 41 of BP, but I changed my mind when I realized that having it from Bucky's perspective wouldn't make a lot of sense. So I rewrote it and posted the original here. **


	13. summer of '96

**Summary: Hedy finds a stranger in an alleyway and decides to help him. Coincides with Chapter 42 of Bitter Protocol. MAJOR SPOILERS.**

* * *

**summer of '96**

* * *

"_Two BLTS, a side of fries and a coke, for table two_!"

Hedy slapped the ticket onto the board next to Bob's grill. was always popping in the early evening. The little burger joint was crackling with the sound of the grill, the large TV going in the corner wall, playing either a sports channel or the news. Worn green seats and old yellow tiles had a warm comfort to them, although maybe too warm with this July heat.

There were the regulars: Marko from the pawn shop, sometimes accompanied by his sons; Earl and Berto, with their high-vis orange vests, always in after their shift working construction; young Inez, who often came in to do homework and eat while her parents fought at home; Jim and Sandy, fifty years married and who Hedy often saw at church. Hedy had her hands full with nearly every table occupied.

But today saw a bunch of new patrons, not unusual but Hedy had never seen this many at once before. It was partially due to the traffic outside; an incident down by the WTC earlier today had caused all traffic downtown to be ground to a halt, and that left Hedy with a surplus of tables to cover on the last leg of her shift.

God, her feet were tired. She'd kill to have a nap right now.

Hedy could feel the weight of her tips weighing down her apron — she hoped it was enough to pay her rent this month. Waitress salary was not for those with rich appetites.

"So, did Jared call you again?" Claire asked from the counter, popping her bubble gum, once Hedy returned from delivering the last receipt. She was taller than Hedy, with dark eyes and a pixie cut to match. They both wore the same unflattering yellow waitress outfit, mutual in their suffering. The color, at least, matched Hedy's hair, but she thought that just made it worse.

Hedy leaned against the counter with a roll of her eyes. "Yes, not that it's any of your business."

"It is my business when he's my lab partner," Claire countered, wiggling her eyebrows to show she was joking. "His morale is key to my success. Which means _you_ are key to my success. So spit it out, what did he say?"

"Oh, you know, this and that," Hedy waved her hand flippantly. Claire Temple was Hedy's age, early twenties — they had met two years ago in the first class of the same nursing program, and had been friends ever since. In fact, it was Hedy who hooked Claire up with this job, when she was hurting for some extra cash. "He talked about the football team, about his car, about the weekend in the Catskills. Honestly, he's really good at holding a conversation with himself. Great pick."

Claire snorted. "Yeah, he doesn't shut up in lab, either. It's a wonder I can get through that class without shoving a scalpel into his — oh, your table three is done."

"Right," Hedy lifted herself off the counter and swooped over to the now empty booth to clean up, fighting a smile along the way. Claire often took advantage of their mutual shifts to get Hedy to talk about things she didn't enjoy; dating, for instance, when Hedy was focused on anything but. It was good-natured ribbing, and Hedy surely gave as good as she got. And it was easier to pass the time with conversation. Hell knows how boring this job was before Claire was here.

As she worked, clearing plates, wiping the tabletop and resetting the napkins and condiments, Hedy listened to the conversation nearby. A small group of men, huddled near the TV, talking about whatever was on the screen.

"Did you hear about what happened down at the Twin Towers? They say it was another bomb." One man said in a red cap.

"It wasn't a _bomb_, you idiot." The second snorted. "And it wasn't at the Twin Towers, either, it was at the UN. A guy got assassinated — a French diplomat, or something."

"_Assassinated_? Are you sure? I just heard something blew up and a bunch of people died."

"Yeah, the convoy the diplomat was driving in. Blown sky high. A lot of civilians got caught in it. No video footage except for a news crew that happened to be covering another story there, about a statue ceremony or something. Caught the explosion in the back-ground."

"And they know for sure it's about the French guy?"

"The news says its unconfirmed, but _someone_ was in that car, and when its a political someone, its assassination, not murder."

"Not to mention it takes the news forever to give us information."

"The government is all over it, which is why the media can't say anything, either," a third man added in a conspiratorial whisper. "Definitely assassination."

"My wife was freaking out about it," Earl added to the conversation, from his seat across the way. "Kept calling my boss at work, finally had to use the company landline to get her to calm down. She thought I was still working at the site downtown."

"Lucky you weren't," the first man said. "Or you never would've gotten home before midnight. I hear they got a line of suspects and eye-witnesses a mile long. They're interviewing everyone, not wanting to miss a thing.

Hedy frowned to herself as she cleaned the table, having gone slow so she could listen to all of it without appearing to linger. Now, she regretted it. The conversation was unsettling. Hedy was used to overhearing a bunch of uncomfortable, even ugly conversations, and it was the code of the waitress not to comment on it (and save it to gossip with coworkers later). But this felt different. It made her feel… unsafe.

Hedy just hoped all this bullshit wouldn't keep her from getting home.

There was a lot of talk circulating, now that she was paying attention. This attack, this assassination, whatever it was. Hedy had chosen not to pay attention. She had too much on her plate to worry about politics. She was too busy trying to make enough to pay for college. Nursing school was only three years, and she'd already taken so much time off to pay for it, to work for it. Hard enough doing both at the same time. Now the city wasn't even safe? The best she could do was just mind her own business.

She felt better, after bringing the pile of dirty dishes to the dishwasher in the back, checking her watch, and finding her shift was done. Thank God. She punched out, and slumped into the stool near Claire's position at the cash register.

Claire snapped her gum and cocked an eyebrow at Hedy. "So, you gonna call him back or not?"

Her voice jolted Hedy out of her thoughts. She snorted in response, so loud she had to hide it behind her notepad before people stared. "Who, Jared and his frosted tips? No way."

"Jared and his frosted tips is gonna be a doctor someday," Claire pointed out, still snapping that gum as she rang up the cash register. "An ER doctor. Or a pediatrician. Or an anesthesiologist. I dunno, tells me something different each time. He's the only guy in our class that has one of those phones in his car. Even if he doesn't graduate, Jared's gonna be floating on his parents' money for decades."

"Well, he can float on without me," Hedy muttered distractedly, as she looked over the receipt when Claire handed it to her. Pulling the pencil from her ear, she signed it at the bottom corner, then handed it back. "I'll just survive on tips for the rest of my life."

"Don't knock on wood," Claire replied with a foreboding look, before breaking into a smile. "You still planning on taking a semester off?"

"Yeah," Hedy said, as she started pulling bills and coins from her pockets to count out her tips from this shift. Bob was kind in not making any of them pool it, and just keep what they earned. Which was great, because it meant Hedy didn't lose thirty percent to lazier employees, like her last job in high school. "If I don't, I won't have enough saved up to finish in the spring. But I won't be able to finish in the spring anyways, if I take this semester off and have to wait until next year to take the classes that they only have in the fall…"

It all became so overwhelming so fast, the more she started to say. Hedy let out a groan, throwing out her hands and dropping her head on the table. There was no way she was going to graduate this spring, no matter what choice she made. "If I make it out of this alive and with a degree, it'd be a miracle."

She had been working at Bob's since she started college. It didn't pay much, but it could afford a cheap apartment close to her school. She knew she could probably save more money if she moved in with Richard or Ben — they'd certainly offered enough times — but Hedy was stubborn, and prideful. She didn't want to keep being treated like the baby sister that she was. Richard was already working on his PhD, and he didn't get any handouts. Ben got through trade school on scholarships and small jobs. Hedy didn't want to be any different.

Her brothers weren't exactly loaded with cash, either. Like her, they had to pick themselves up by their bootstraps. It was only with his job was Richard able to buy his own house, buy a ring for Mary, get married. They were trying to start a family. Ben was working full-time and May was still looking for work. Hedy didn't want to get in the way of either of them.

Moving would also mean being further away from school, taking the bus or the subway, and getting up earlier and getting home later, which cut in on Hedy's ability to both do her job and get her homework done. For now, this was just more convenient. Stressful. But convenient.

"Hey, now, you can do this," Claire reached out and placed her hand over Hedy's, her voice soft, encouraging. "I believe in you. You already took a break that first year out of high school, what's another four months? You graduate when you graduate."

Hedy lifted her head up, puffing her cheeks and letting out huff of air, that blew her bangs out of her face. "I don't know. Would've been nice to graduate with you guys."

"Hey, girl, don't worry about that! We'll be there at your graduation party. And we'll bring a lot of booze," Claire added, getting a laugh out of Hedy. Claire patted her hand and said, "And if you need anything, just ask. You know I'm there for you. Now, go home and get some sleep. You can pull all the long-ass shifts you want, but it'll kill you first."

"Yeah, you're right," Hedy sighed, straightening and gathering her money.

"And I'll let Jared know you're interested," Claire added with a sneaky wink.

"Don't you dare," Hedy warned, only mildly joking until she saw the look on Claire's face. "Claire, I'm serious! If I pick up the phone and hear his voice again, I will make it my life's mission to make sure you fail that lab."

"Okay, okay!" Claire laughed, throwing up her hands in surrender. "Just go, already! And take those extra fries, Bob says you skipped a break."

Hedy rolled her eyes again, but complied, grabbing her purse and snatching the basket along the way. She'd return it tomorrow, on her next shift. She was already rushing out the door, calling over her shoulder, "Tell Bob thank you for me!"

"Hedy says thank you, Bob!"

Hedy heard the man call back, muffled, and smile as she stepped out onto the street. It was getting darker a lot sooner now, the last warm rays of sunlight turning the sidewalk blood red. The air, at least, had cooled. This summer had been brutal, enough that Hedy often found herself sweating just standing in place.

She took a breath, feeling the relief wash over her with the cool breeze, as she started on the walk home. In the far distance, she could hear the incessant ring of sirens, along with the chorus of honks and beeps — it had been like that all day. And perhaps all night, too.

As Hedy walked, she started to consider her options again. Maybe she could still take classes in the fall, just not as a full time student. Three or four classes, and spend the rest of the time working, if she can.

She'll still be behind, of course, but it's better than missing an entire semester. Hedy was even tempted to take up one of her brothers on their offers of housing. She had to be smart about this. It'd be cheaper. It'd be safer, for sure. Hell's Kitchen was aptly named, and Hedy always carried a can of pepper spray on her. She'd only been mugged once while living here, but was not keen on reliving the experience.

Already, Hedy was planning a nice TV dinner, watching some _Seinfeld_, and taking the best sleep of her life. Popping a french fry in her mouth, she considered maybe skipping dinner and going straight to the shower. The polyester uniform did nothing to hide the smell of a double-shift of sweat.

Plans that would never come to fruition, unfortunately.

Up ahead, there was a loud crash. Metal crunching and glass breaking. Hedy jolted, coming to a dead stop, clutching the basket of fries to her chest. That sounded close. That sounded _violent_. Like something falling several stories to meet a nasty end. Or criminals trying to break into a store, or a car.

The sounds only amplified the atmosphere. Deep shadows had fallen across the street, making the dark more ominous, more threatening. A trap.

For a second, Hedy didn't know what to do. Maybe dart across the street, away from that noise. Go back the way she came. Anything besides walking straight ahead and running into whatever trouble that awaited, whatever trouble that would surely mean the end of her life.

Then she heard a groan.

Hedy tensed, then took a step forward. Then another. Every thought in her head was screaming at her to run, but curiosity won out.

The alleyway had gone quiet while she approached. No sound of movement or activity. Hedy peered around the corner.

She smothered a gasp. There, lying on the ground ten feet away, back against the brick wall, was a man. Limp, unconscious. Even from here she could tell he was a large man, easily six feet. At least two hundred pounds. Covered head to foot in black clothing — thick leather and nylon, ripped and torn in many places. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. He looked as though he'd been in a bad fight. Most certainly not someone Hedy wanted to go near.

Until she saw the blood dripping down his hand, puddling on the ground.

Despite her better knowledge, Hedy approached, stepping carefully like a skittish animal inspecting a strange sight. She kneeled down, knees on the cold ground, as she scanned him; from his head, face hidden by a mop of lank, dark hair — a piece of glass embedded in his shoulder here, a bleeding gash there, a hole in the sleeve of his bicep — down to muddy boots, black pants made of a thick, rough material, what looked like a belt and _oh my god was that a gun — _

"Sir? Are you okay? Sir?" Hedy asked, but he was unresponsive. She couldn't tell if he was awake, all that dark hair hanging in her face, and she reached up to brush it aside, to get a better look at who this man was.

Her fingertips had only just brushed his cheek when a metal hand grabbed her wrist.

Hedy gasped, recoiling, but the hand didn't let go. And then she realized it was _attached to him_. His entire left arm, the one furthest from her, was covered entirely in metal. Like armor.

_No, not like armor_, Hedy corrected mentally, when she heard the soft whirr and click of internal gears and rods as the arm moved. The _entire_ arm was metal. A machine.

In the darkness, a red star gleamed on that metal shoulder.

"_Please_," A soft voice whispered, and Hedy's eyes flashed from the arm, to the face of the man who had just woken up — she had entirely forgotten about him, to be honest. His voice was rough and hoarse, his pale eyes dim and desperate. "_Help me._"

He let her go, then. His eyes fluttered, head drooping. Fingers going slack, metal arm slumping to the ground. Hedy felt like she'd been punched in the stomach, she couldn't breath as she fell back, scrambled away from him a few inches. This was no ordinary man. Whoever — _whatever _he was, he was dangerous.

But he was hurt.

Hedy took one more look at this man. And knew what she had to do.

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

Hedy sat on the stool, studying the man passed out on her couch. Her legs jogged beneath her, jostling her still-bloodied fists perched under her chin. She knew she should wash her hands. Wash everything, really. But she was too scared to move. Didn't want to let this man out of her sight.

Not after digging two bullets out of him.

Not after stitching over half a dozen wounds.

Not after seeing the metal arm.

She hadn't known his exact injuries, and even forgot about the metal arm (what was it, some kind of advanced prosthetic? Was he some sort of cyborg? Was he from the future? Maybe Hedy watched too many movies) for a brief while, pulling the man out of that alleyway. Only that his dark clothes — some kind of weird tactical gear, that had been hell trying to cut off with scissors — had been soaked with blood, and had gotten some on her when she helped walk him to her apartment. Thank God it was only a block away.

Unable to stand the silence after the DIY surgery, Hedy had turned the TV on. Didn't care about the channel, so just left it on the first thing that popped up. Airing some kind of movie from the 50's, all in black in white. The low voices and classical score was soothing, in its own way. Allowed Hedy to get lost in her thoughts, and wrap her head around what just happened.

The man said he wouldn't hurt her, when she had paused after helping him up off the ground. He'd notice her looking at his arsenal, apparently. She wouldn't get hurt. But not to call the police. Or go to the hospital. Which had been Hedy's instinct, learning to become a nurse and all.

But he was insistent. He also had a gun. And another gun. And several knives. Hedy decided it wise not to argue with him, even if he was hurt.

The man had passed out again while Hedy was trying to save his life. Right before she opened her door, and she had to drag him onto her couch. He'd lost a lot of blood.

The metal arm still stunned her. After getting him to her apartment, dragging him to her couch — the first large surface she could find besides the floor itself — and got her student toolkit. She'd ordered this from a supplier two years ago, and had only worked on corpses — not living, breathing people, not practicing _real_ medicine. Hedy was sure she was committing some serious HIPAA violations right now, but she didn't care.

For some reason, she was determined to save this man's life.

Hedy had sworn an oath. A nurse helped people — didn't matter who or what they were.

For what it was worth, she had succeeded. So far. It had taken a hair-raising thirty minutes to figure out what was wrong and treat all his wounds. The man had been comatose again not long after she started pulling out the first bullet out from his arm. It made him easier to work with. It wasn't like Hedy had any sedatives to make this easier on him.

In the end, nine different wounds, two bullets, and fifty-two stitches later, and Hedy was pretty sure he was going to make it. The man's breathing had evened out, deepened, as he entered sleep. Hedy didn't have anything to treat his blood loss — no blood or IV fluids, not unless she decided to steal from her school.

Hedy was not in the mood for upping the ante on her list of crimes so far. She was pretty sure that this made her a criminal, in some aspect, although how specifically she wasn't sure. Hospitals were required to inform the police of gunshot victims, which was no doubt the reason why this man didn't want to go to one. And if he had something to hide from the police, then there was a high chance he'd done something illegal. Maybe a lot of things.

At any rate, the best Hedy could do was make sure he drank a lot of water when he woke up. The upholstery of her couch was stained deep red. She hadn't thought to cover it with anything before depositing the man there, and now she felt a tinge of regret. Ben gave her that couch.

_That blood is never going to wash out_, said some voice in an empty corner of her brain. Hedy almost snorted at herself. Was that her biggest takeaway from all this?

In cutting off his shirt, Hedy got to fully witness just how extensive his metal prosthetic was. The arm extended well past his shoulder and into his chest. For better structural support, Hedy supposed, but there seemed something very savage, cruel about it. The skin where metal and man connected was deeply scarred, pale and shiny. Long since healed, perhaps. How long had he had the arm? How long ago had he lost his real one?

And there was something about that face. Hedy wasn't sure, but it seemed familiar somehow. Like she might've seen him in a book, or a movie. Hard to tell, under the grime and bruises. He had a fair amount of stubble. Looked somewhere mid-to-late twenties. Although he seemed older, somehow.

Hedy's work would leave scars, but he already had plenty of others, outside of his prosthetic. Burns, scratches, what looked like _more_ bullet wounds, also old. What was he, some kind of soldier? Everything from his gear to his weapons spoke military, but not any military Hedy recognized. All of his clothes were black, no identifying marks aside from the red star, which itself was a warning sign.

Hedy had grown up surrounded by the Cold War. It had only ended five years ago. The red star could mean a lot of things. But only a few very prominent ideas popped into her mind.

She tried to push them out of her head. The man had spoken with an American accent. He'd looked… scared. Hedy didn't know what was going on. She didn't know who she had in her apartment. She didn't know if this might get her killed.

For a moment, Hedy was tempted to call Claire. Or her brothers. Someone, anyone, who could tell her what to do, knock some sense into her. But she couldn't drag them into this. Hedy might not know what was going on but she _did_ have enough sense to know this wasn't good. That this was going to have consequences. This was bigger than she could understand. How big, she wasn't sure yet. But definitely bad. Very bad.

But she couldn't go to the authorities with this. Not at the man's request. What would he do if he woke up and found out she contacted someone she shouldn't have? Hedy hadn't even removed all his weapons. And she'd felt the strength of that metal arm. He didn't need any gun or knife to kill her. To kill the people she cared about.

God, what was she going to do? Hedy couldn't go anywhere with this. Not to her family, not to her friends.

And now she was stuck here, alone with a wounded stranger.

She dropped her head into her hands, defeated. Hedy should've listened to her brothers' advice about getting out of Manhattan before it was too late. Did she listen? Of course not.

The man would wake up a few hours later. By that point, it was well into the evening, the sky completely dark. The city was still wide awake. Sirens still ringing in the distance, red and blue lights flashing past the windows periodically.

Looking for him?

Hedy had gotten so hungry that it overcame her fear, and decided to get up, wash her hands, find something to eat. TV dinner wasn't going to cut it tonight.

She was cracking eggs into a pan, still waffling on scrambled or an omelette, when she heard a groan behind her. Hedy spun around, leaning over the counter to see the man rising slowly to a sitting position, a hand rubbing his face. When he looked up, he saw her. And froze.

The two of them just stared at each other, grey eyes to brown, entirely unmoving. He didn't even blink.

Hedy was the first to break the silence. "You're alive?"

It came out like a question. Honestly, Hedy wasn't sure he would make it. She had worked on him under the lamp by the couch, and since then had turned on another few other lights — but not too many. Not with the paranoia creeping down her spine. She kept the windows blinded, just in case.

"Think so," the man finally muttered, breaking her gaze to check himself over. His metal hand slid over the gauze around his arm, a line building between his brows. He looked back up at her, frowning. "You did all this?"

Hedy could only nod, suddenly finding her voice locked in her throat. A combination of excitement, fear. Wariness. He was awake now. She would get answers. Or die.

The man finally blinked. "...Thank you."

"Hey, yeah, n-no worries," Hedy ground out in a slight panic, swallowing at the thickness in her throat. _No worries_? What an idiot. Like she'd just done him a small favor and hadn't aided and abetted a likely criminal. She whirled around to consider her eggs again, trying to think. What should she do now?

She did not expect to be thanked. Hedy couldn't get the image of his expression out of her head; his face was hard to read, but she swore there was a mote of surprise there, like he hadn't expected this either. His gratitude certainly seemed sincere. A little gruff, maybe, but certainly not the big, ugly bruiser she thought he'd act like.

There were lots of things she could say now. So many questions that she couldn't even begin to list them. Hedy couldn't even figure out which one she wanted to know most urgently. Who he was? What happened to him? What did he do? How did he get shot? How did he get that metal arm?

Instead, what Hedy said was, "D'ya want some eggs?"

When he didn't respond immediately, Hedy glanced over her shoulder to check on him. The man was still sitting on the couch, wincing as he straightened, hand slipping behind his lower back to find where the second bullet had entered. When he realized she was staring, he jolted slightly, then said, "Er. Yeah. Sure."

Hedy shot him a quick, thin smile, and turned back to the frying pan. Scrambled eggs it is.

This was very… odd. Everything was just so calm, a sense of civility that made this all the more outlandish. Was being saved by strangers normal for him? Hedy wouldn't assume so, considering the way he looked when he found himself patched up.

It was starting to freak her out a little, so Hedy focused on her cooking instead. She had an arrangement of other ingredients, chopped vegetable, meat, and cheese, that she wanted to add. A hearty meal for any average person, and hopefully enough for this guy. For now, she decided to roll with whatever the hell was going on. Hedy was still scared, but not as much as she was before.

"Who are you?" he eventually asked, while her back was turned.

"Hedy," She replied without looking around. Was kind of scared, really. "Hedy Parker."

"You saved my life." He stated, as if that were also a part of her identity.

"Uh. Yep." Hedy winced at herself. Why was she like this?

"Why?"

That was harder to answer. Hedy turned her head slightly, but didn't look at him. Just trying to think of what to say aside from shrugging her shoulders. "I dunno. I couldn't just leave you there to die, I guess. And… you asked nicely."

It sounded lame, coming out of her mouth, but Hedy didn't take it back. He _did_ say 'please.' At any rate, the man never replied.

When Hedy turned around again, she yelped. The man now stood at the kitchen table, studying the newspaper on top of her pile of mail.

Her cry made him jump, too, also silent, even in boots that heavy. "What?"

Hedy hadn't even heard him get off the couch. For a man so large, he moved very quietly. She stammered, "Er, nothing. You just, um, you shouldn't be moving so soon."

Honestly, the man shouldn't be moving _at all_, and Hedy wasn't really sure how he was even standing up to begin with. The kind of damage he sustained would easily put a healthy adult male on bedrest for weeks. The pain alone would be immense. Not to mention the blood loss. This man was unusually pale, but not as bad as he was before. And he was up and about like he just took a small tumble.

"Oh," The man glanced away. Annoyed? Embarrassed? She couldn't tell, but under the kitchen light he seemed even bigger than before. Easily dwarfing her by half a foot, bare chest hosting a tapestry of wounds and scars, metal arm gleaming — he was even more imposing than when she had found him in the alleyway. And Hedy swore some of his bruises looked like they were already starting to heal. But that couldn't be right, could it?

_This isn't right_, Hedy thought to herself, a little uneasy. _This isn't… human. _

But Hedy didn't know how to say that. Honestly, she was kind of scared that none of this was real, that she was going crazy. Instead, she preferred him on the couch, and said as much.

The man nodded once, offering no argument, but paused when he glanced down at the newspaper again. A metal finger pointed at it. "Can I take this with me?"

What was she going to tell him, no? Hedy did a faulty half-nod-shrug combo. She didn't care what he wanted it for anyways, it was just a newspaper. Maybe he wanted to take a peek at the sports section, or the classifieds.

He nodded again his thanks, taking the roll and shuffling back to the couch — again, without a sound. Just the barest whisper of clothing, the soft whirring of his arm not unlike the sound of her computer booting up. Hedy watched him carefully, as if he might vanish into thin air at any moment. Next to her, the landline hung on the wall, corkscrew cord dangling. It wasn't too late. She could still call the police if she wanted to.

Instead, she turned away from the phone, and went back to her cooking. Not yet. But if he showed any sign of threat, hurt her at all — Hedy didn't care. If she wasn't safe, then she owed him nothing.

Behind her, she could hear crackling as the man looked over the newspaper. Her curiosity started to grow again, but this time Hedy told it to shut up. Look what it already got her into. But the man surprised her when he spoke instead, "How old is this paper?"

"Dunno," Hedy said, glancing at the calendar facing on the wall. Her mail was kind of just in a pile and she didn't really read the newspaper anyways. She just threw them in the recycling when she got too many. "A few days, I think."

"What day is it now?"

"July thirteenth."

"Of?"

"Of?" Hedy repeated. Then understood. "Oh. 1996."

It occurred to her, belatedly, that was weird, too. "Wait, do you — do you not remember the year?"

The man didn't answer for so long that Hedy almost expected him not to reply at all. It might've been a full minute before he finally said, "No. I don't… I don't remember anything."

"You… what?" Hedy wasn't sure she heard right. She turned to look at him again. The man's eyes were fixed on the wall, a far-away look in his expression. Dead. Dull. "W-what's the last thing you remember?"

"Falling," He mumbled, shaking his head, wincing at some thought. "Hitting the ground. Then you, finding me."

A chill came over Hedy then. "So you don't remember what happened to you?"

"No." He was very terse, she noticed. Quiet in words as well as action.

"You don't remember getting shot?" Hedy asked, her voice turning sharp with alarm. "_Twice_?"

The way his eyes widened was answer enough. He had no idea he'd been shot. They stared at each other in mutual shock. What the hell was going on? Hedy swallowed, thinking this over. "M—maybe you hit your head in that fall. Could be… amnesia or something. It might come back to you, after a while."

_Or not at all_. Hedy decided not to say that. The eggs were starting to burn, so she set her focus on putting it out on plates. Still had enough wherewithal to give the man the lion's share of the meal.

The man said nothing. Not that she blamed him.

"Do you remember your name, at least?" she asked him, trying to keep her voice from sounding too high-pitched, give away her own fear. But a name would help. She'd like to have a name for him.

Had Hedy been looking at the man, she might've noticed the brief flash of panic across the man's face, as he scanned the room, as if it could provide an answer to the missing memories in his head. Finally, his attention landed on the TV, the film noir playing out. On screen, the private detective, former army veteran, stood in front of the door to his office, trying to talk down the femme fatale luring him to what was most assuredly more trouble. On the door, a name plate.

"Fletcher," the man finally said, his voice hoarse. "My name's Fletcher."

* * *

**A/N: Honestly…. This one kind of got away from me lmaooo. Based on a request I got from a guest reviewer. I've known for a while how I wanted this to go, but it turned out way longer than I intended. I guess it worked out? xD Anyways, hope you enjoyed!**


	14. girl talk

**Summary: Mia has an important conversation about biology with Aunt May. Takes place sometime after TWS.**

* * *

**girl talk**

* * *

It had been an entirely normal Saturday morning for May Parker. She had made herself a cup of coffee, some toast, and was reading the morning news and in general spending some Me Time while the kids were still asleep.

This day, however, Amelia woke up early. Early and alone, poking around the kitchen with a strange sort of silence. May was only mildly conscious of her, watching out of the corner of her eye as the girl roamed back and forth from her spot seated in the living room. If May had been paying any more attention, she would've noticed the distinct nervous air, the way Amelia wrung her hands together, the complete lack of interest in food despite her search.

Finally, though, Amelia spoke up, standing in the middle of the kitchen like a statue out of place. "Aunt May, I was wondering if I could, er, talk to you about something."

"Yeah, sure, sweetie," May said without looking up from her tablet, lifting up her coffee cup to take a sip. "What is it?"

"Okay, well," Amelia took a deep breath through her nose. "I haven't had my period in two months."

May choked on her coffee.

"Actually, I've _never_ had it but, er…" Amelia wasn't done yet. She looked incredibly uncomfortable, her cheeks a sharp pink and her eyes focused on the ceiling. "Well, it kind of occurred to me after that whole thing in DC. I thought maybe it was because I was underweight for so long but… but I'm not anymore. And before that I didn't really know what to do about it. Or — or talk about it. But… yeah."

Her mouth snapped shut and Amelia stood there, arms at her sides, awaiting judgement.

_Christ on a bike._ May was still coughing, trying to recover from her closest heart attack scare in years. Finally, she righted herself, straightening her glasses and holding out her hands as she tried to collect her thoughts. This was definitely not what she expected to come out of Amelia's mouth, not in the least. Her initial panic was assuaged, but only just — honestly, it was even worse than May could have anticipated. But where to _begin_…?

"W-well! At least you're talking about it now. Saves me from having to find a natural segue during girl's night…" May wiped her face and pushed her hair back, steeling herself. "Okay, then. We're, uh, we're gonna figure this out like adults."

"Like adults?" Amelia repeated, her brows knitting together.

"Yes, I'm — I'm gonna make a few calls," May said, holding up a finger and looking for her phone. "Get a, er, a doctor's appointment. It's, ah, it's about time you see an OBGYN. You know, aside from this."

When she looked up, May saw Amelia's pale, wide-eyed expression, and paused for a moment to really let it sink in. Then she stood, rushing over to give Amelia a hug. "Oh, Mia, it's okay. It'll be okay. I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation to all of this. One that doesn't involve…"

"Babies?"

"Yeah, that."

* * *

**~o~**

* * *

A week later, they'd get their answer.

The doctor's office was small but neat, although Amelia didn't find it reassuring, if her kicking legs sitting up on the bed was any indication. It had taken hours getting all those tests done, and May did not expect her to talk about them — and Amelia didn't. May had already settled with getting all her information out of the doctor.

"I'm sure everything's fine, sweetie," May put a hand on Amelia's knee, hoping to calm her. "It always takes a while with these things."

Amelia made a noncommittal sound, but didn't say anything. May wondered if she regretted ever bringing up the topic at all.

A willowy woman in scrubs and a white coat entered the room, black hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. She introduced herself as Dr. Lawson, although May already had some idea of who she was. A former SHIELD doctor who had experience working with unique individuals — and she was vetted by none other than Natasha Romanov. Just in case.

This fact was apparently not something Dr. Lawson was aware of, when she did a double-take at the sight of the red-headed woman standing in the corner of the room, arms crossed and eyes fixed on the doctor.

"And you must be the guardian, May Parker," They shook hands, and Dr. Lawson frowned at the ex-KGB assassin, who did not step forward to introduce herself. Dr. Lawson hesitated, "And you are…?"

Natasha Romanov didn't blink. "Moral support."

Natasha had been crucial in retrieving any and all files related to Amelia's time in captivity. May was still getting used to the presence of the former spy (that part, especially, was difficult to wrap her head around), but the woman seemed to have genuine motives and concern for Amelia. And if it hadn't been for Natasha, they never would have learned about the full extent of the device Amelia had, all of its functions and capabilities.

(May had tried to assure the spy that her presence wasn't necessary — but Mia had been fine with it, and the matter was settled).

Dr. Lawson blinked once, seemed to make the wise decision in not questioning Natasha, and turned back to the group at large. "Okay, then! Well, I have some good news and some… other news. But the good news first. Good news, Mia is totally fine and healthy, as healthy as a, er, a teenaged super soldier can be, I suppose."

That was a comfort to hear. Everyone in the room visibly relaxed, and May herself almost wanted to cry in relief. God knows she had only the barest idea of what she should be doing as a parent — a single parent, no less — at any point in time, especially regarding Amelia's current state. May did her best, but she often worried if that was enough.

"So, if she's healthy, then why…" May asked, gesturing vaguely with her hand. While they were waiting for the doctor's appointment a week ago, Mia had mentioned that she thought the reason for her lack of certain puberty milestones was because of what happened to her when she was thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. The place where she had been. The people who took her. Only very recently May learned those people were called HYDRA (a specific head of the beast, the KGB, which… well, May hadn't been worried about them since the early 90's).

May had hoped Mia might have been wrong about that. That there would be a simpler, less traumatic reasoning for this. Maybe it was just biology. Maybe female super soldiers didn't get periods. It's not like anyone knew, Mia being the only known one. That would be pretty convenient.

As it turned out, Mia's suspicions were correct. Dr. Lawson continued, "From our tests, it looks like the IUD was inserted about a year ago. It's not, er, it's not like anything I've ever seen, to be honest. The amount of hormones this thing pumps out… Well, let's just say I think we've discovered the reason why you've had so much trouble gaining weight, Mia. Aside from that, though, I can't see any health issues. It's not causing you any pain or trouble that you can notice? No? Well, aside from your weight, I cannot see any reason to have it immediately removed. It's entirely your choice whether or not you'd like to have it removed."

"How long will it last?"

"Honestly? No idea. Most last three to five years. But that's for the ones on the market. Whatever you have seems specially engineered for your… physiology. From what I can tell, it's meant to last for at least another, hm, ten years? Maybe more. We can perform more tests to give you a definite answer, if you like."

Everyone looked to Amelia, who blinked up in surprise. Realizing they were expecting an answer from her, she finally murmured, "What happens if I keep it?"

"If you do decide that, you'll have to consider your diet with more attention and care to maintain a healthy weight." Dr. Lawson replied with a clinical upbeatness. "You'll never have a level of body fat that will be normal for a regular girl your age, but given your unique physicality it's not unhealthy or detrimental. As long as you keep eating."

May could see the indecision warring across Amelia's face at that, so she turned to Dr. Lawson with a polite smile. "Can you give us a moment to discuss this privately?"

"Of course."

Dr. Lawson handed May a sheet of paper detailing all the effects of the IUD before leaving the room. Amelia had said so little the entire time, and while May was used to her stoicness, that didn't feel like a good thing this time. Three pairs of eyes looked down the sheet. Even Natasha raised her eyebrows at the sheer amount of hormones the device pumped out just to alter Amelia's cycles. The woman mused that it might also help boost Amelia's general physicality, energy levels, or emotional reactions.

If that bothered Amelia, her expression didn't reveal it. "I guess that would've made a mindless super soldier easier to take care of."

That felt like a punch to the gut. May had no words ready to respond to that. Natasha, perhaps seeing May floundering at Amelia's casual response, quickly added, "

"But if you do decide to keep it," May finally found the words she wanted to say, "We need to have the Talk. You know the one."

Amelia cringed a little at that but nodded in understanding. (May decided not to tell Amelia she was going to get the Talk either way. It was long overdue).

"I'd like to talk to Dr. Lawson," Amelia finally said. "Alone. If that's okay."

"Oh, sure, honey," May tried to smile, be reassuring, even if those words made her heart skip. She and Natasha ended up waiting outside in the lobby while Dr. Lawson returned to the little patient room.

Natasha sat primly in one of the leather chairs, legs crossed at the ankle. The lobby to this practice was decorated with rich taste, a warm smell in the room, like incense, comforting and homey. It was also quiet, with a TV playing silently in one corner and soft Muzak playing on speakers inlaid into the ceiling. But it did little to soothe. May was pacing nervously. She couldn't sit. Not when she was so worried and curious as to what they were discussing without her.

"She'll be alright, May," Natasha said, giving May a sympathetic look. "Mia's got a good head on her shoulders. Whatever choice she makes, I'm sure it's for a good reason."

"I know, I know," May sighed. It wasn't that she was worried what kind of choices Mia would make. "It's just that… what doesn't she want me to hear? Did I do something wrong? Doesn't she trust me?"

"It's not about trust," Natasha shook her head. "It's about privacy. And she trusts you not to invade it. I think she trusts you more than anyone else in her life. But she's a teenage girl, there's probably some questions she's embarrassed to ask in front of you. And there's things she's not ready to talk about with you yet, right?"

"Hmm," May hummed a noncommittal agreement. Natasha's infuriating rationality was making a lot of sense. Of course there were things Amelia didn't want to talk about, not even to May. As much as May tried to keep an open and non-judging relationship, Amelia did not leave the shell she hid in to protect herself. You could lead a horse to water, but you couldn't make it drink.

Although, Amelia _had_ been avoiding the sex talk for a while now… "Do you think she'll keep it?" May suddenly asked, turning to Natasha.

Natasha blinked back at her. Natasha was perhaps twenty years May's junior, but she carried an air of maturity and poise that was intimidating. And that was aside from her objective beauty, all red hair and sharp green eyes. Or her impeccable choice in clothes. May had not known Natasha for very long, and not very well — but Natasha had been no less than a friend to her, someone to talk to. Someone who wasn't afraid of the hard topics.

Finally, Natasha just shrugged. "What do _you_ think she'll do?"

"Well —" May frowned. She already did know, but she hoped she was wrong. "I… I just don't want her to make a choice she'll regret."

It wasn't that May was worried about what Amelia was up to. Amelia was… well, she wasn't an angel, per se, but she wasn't boy-crazy, either. At least, not yet. The closest Amelia had ever shown interest in anyone had been that boy she tutored, Dmitri, and May nearly had to strangle that truth out of her; Getting Amelia to act on those feelings? Herding cats.

Mercies come in small sizes, May decided, and she appreciated every one of them.

"I think Amelia's shown herself to be pretty responsible in all this," Natasha said, tilting her head in consideration. "She came to you because she wanted help, and knew you would be there for her. Hasn't tried to lie, wants to be as informed as she can. I think you need to trust her, too, May."

(In truth, Amelia was looking at a third option — crafting a different IUD, similar to the one she had but improved, specially made for herself. One that could last just as long, but would make it easier not to starve. And not made by the people who wanted to control her. Dr. Lawson was receptive to the idea; former SHIELD scientists and doctors at her disposal, and they had the resources to build such a device. It would take some time, though, and testing and observation, and the removal of her current device would mean Mia would have to spend a few months for her menses cycle to kick in — but all that didn't bother Amelia. Just so long as she wasn't stuck with this one forever. Amelia had other questions, too, regarding what might have been done to her, in the time of the Crucible. Dr. Lawson had fewer answers for that. It was so long ago that any evidence would be gone now. Although that was not reassuring, Amelia was glad for the way Dr. Lawson spoke, objective but kind. It made it easier to decide for herself what she wanted, regardless of the consequences. Having this all be her choice made all the difference to Amelia. She was in control again. She would stay in control).

(Amelia would relay some of this to May later on, but not all of it. Not yet. Not soon).

It was nearly an hour later when Amelia finally returned to the lobby, looking a little worn out, but offering May a smile when she appeared. May herself was a bag of nerves, but Amelia seemed to be in slightly better spirits than when they arrived, so that seemed to be promising.

Walking back to the car, Amelia explained what she discussed with Dr. Lawson and what she wanted to do. She liked the benefits of the IUD but not where it came from. Not what it meant. May took it all in careful silence, trying to keep herself neutral, not give away any expression that might sway Amelia's opinion one way or the other. A shared glance with Natasha said both women were thinking the same thing; it was a choice neither of them expected, but… a mature one. Natasha was right. Amelia was taking this seriously.

"Well, I'm glad you came to a decision you're happy with," May said as she geared the car into drive. Amelia sat in the backseat with Natasha in the front, Amelia sprawled out on the backseat to make room for all that leg. May glanced at her through the rear-view mirror, worried. "You _are_ happy with it, right?"

"Yeah, I think so," Amelia replied, her lips pursed, looking out the window as the car entered the road. May thought, hoped, Amelia might say more, but she didn't.

"Well, that's good," May did her best to sound positive anyways. They had another twenty minute drive home, and May saw the opportunity just waiting for her. "You know, now that we're on the topic, I think it's a good time to discuss safe and healthy habits regarding sex. Right, Natasha?"

"Wait, what?" Amelia froze, her eyes flicking side to side. She suddenly appeared to realize she was stuck in here, vehicle in motion, doors locked. Trapped.

"Oh, of course." Natasha responded almost at the same time, with a tiny smile. Like she wasn't the one who gave May the idea to have this discussion in a car. Where Amelia couldn't run away like all the times before.

"Great!" May grinned, pretending she didn't hear Amelia's groan of suffering. "I think a good place to start is consent and boundaries…"

* * *

**A/N: Inspired by a conversation with charmanderisacutie on tumblr.**


	15. afterparty

**Summary: Amelia helps Dmitri home after he gets too drunk at a party. Was supposed to happen in Rebel Columbia, but is no longer canon. Incomplete.**

* * *

**afterparty**

* * *

Dmitri was slumped against the back wall of the elevator. It hummed quietly as we started to ascend. At first, I was thankful that we were alone, that no one else had to see me escorting a drunk dancer home in these nice clothes.

Then Dmitri started to laugh.

I didn't notice it at first, I was looking at the number climbing above the door. But I noticed him shaking out of the corner of my eye, and looked over, frowning. Dmitri, cheeks flushed, was grinning like a fool as he smothered giggles into his sleeve.

I threw him a curious look, smiling. "What? What's so funny?"

"Nothing," Dmitri shook his head, closing his eyes and turning away from me for a moment, as he tried to recover. Another laugh burst from his mouth. "N-nothing at all. I just, ha-ha, I just remembered something."

"Oh yeah?" I didn't know why I was encouraging him. But there was something cute about him like this, that despite all this trouble getting him home, I was still enjoying myself. "And what's that?"

"The day we met," Dmitri said, still smiling as he shook his head. "When you first walked in, I didn't know who you were. I actually thought you were another dancer, a-a model even. I didn't think a girl like you would be tutoring idiots like me."

"You're not an idiot, Dmitri."

* * *

He raised a hand, drawing his fingers over the skin above my sleeve, tracing the edge of the tattoo on my shoulder. "Has anyone ever told you you're beautiful?"

I threw him a look, speechless for a moment. Dmitri's eyes were glazed over, and it took him a moment for his gaze to drift over and meet mine. I finally managed to say, "Has anyone ever told you you're funny when drunk?"

"It's not a joke," Dmitri smiled softly, his eyes going back to the red star. His fingers were warm, "If you're asking me that question, then I take it no one has?"

"A few," I said, but decided not to elaborate it was only my mother who ever said that I was beautiful. What would that say about me? Even when drunk, Dmitri was perceptive. "But beauty is skin-deep. It's not what really matters."

"But beauty is more than just appearance," Dmitri murmured, and it seemed like he was drifting off into a tangent, talking more to himself than me. "It's kindness, and courage. It's refusing to let the world change who you really are. It's a ...It's a shame some people can't see that."

I frowned at him. "Well, beauty is subjective. People have different ideas of what's beautiful."

"You're beautiful to me," he said, before meeting my eyes.

I stared at him, half in surprise. I almost smiled. I waited for the other shoe to drop.

But it wasn't a joke. Dmitri didn't smile, only held my gaze steady, or as steady as a boy drunk on champagne could be. A long moment passed, and I realized he was serious — my neck and face went hot, and I quickly looked away.

"You really need to sleep," I said, standing up sharply, before Dmitri could say anything else that would make this worse. There was a blanket resting over the back of the couch. I leaned over Dmitri to reach it, saying, "You'll feel better in the morning. More like yourself…"

At this point, I was mumbling under my breath, not really to anyone. My face still felt hot. _It's just the alcohol talking. It's what guys say to girls when they've danced together. It's just polite._

My fingers clenched around the rough wool, but before I could drag it down, Dmitri grabbed my arm. "Amelia…"

It wasn't a tight grip, but it, and my full name, was enough to make me look down at him. I didn't know why, but him saying that struck a note to me - Dmitri had taken to calling me by my first name for a while, ever since I said he could, but this time, it was different. The way he said my name, there was something new there. Something deeper.

A touch on my shoulder. I jumped, and Dmitri withdrew his hand with a wince, looking embarrassed. "Sorry. I just noticed these scars on your back…"

"Oh," I looked down at the table, silently scrambling for an answer to the question I saw in his face. "Yeah. They're still a little sensitive."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry," Dmitri said quickly, flushing up to his ears. He averted his gaze, hand wavering up to his face, covering his mouth. He shrugged. "Y-you don't have to tell me."

I studied him for a long moment, before giving him a small nod. "Thanks."

My voice was quiet, maybe a little curt, but it was completely sincere - I appreciated Dmitri's reticence, lack of pushiness. Unlike Peter, or Ned, or anyone else who gawked, pestered, practically vibrated with intense curiosity. What happened to me was more important than who I was.

But not with Dmitri.

So maybe I felt a little grateful; enough to break the silence ten minutes later and say, " **(never completed, supposed to be a segue). **

* * *

"It's just," Dmitri bit his lip, glanced away. "I recognize those scars. My father had them. Bullet wounds."

I paused, my mouth going dry. Not even Peter could guess my scars came from. To divert the conversation, I said, "Your father?"

"He was a soldier," Dmitri said. "Fought in many wars, earned scars like yours. But you," he frowned, his brow pinching together, a slight shake of his head. "You're not a soldier. You shouldn't be like my father. You're just a...girl. Um, no offense."

That last part made me smile a little bit. Dmitri didn't offend me so much as raise an interesting question; although I had the sneaking suspicion that he had been holding onto these thoughts for a while. Probably back when he first saw my scars.

"No, you're right," I said, seeing the anxiety in his face. I traced my finger along the counter, following the lines of a knot in the lacquered wood. "I shouldn't be like this. I don't want to be. But I am."

Dmitri drifted to the other side of the counter. His steps were soft, hesitant, carefully measured - treading on thin ice, as it were. His hand rested on the counter, a few feet from mine. "I know you don't need to be in a war to get scars like that. I just - I want to know if you're okay. If you'll be okay."

"I'm better than I was," I admitted, my eyes focusing on his hand because it was easier to say this when I wasn't meeting his gaze. I didn't move when he stepped closer. "A month ago, I was in a bad situation. A dangerous one. I was stuck in it for a long time. And getting out of it was...well, it was hard. I almost didn't make it."

"But you survived," Dmitri said. "Somehow."

Finally I looked at him. Dmitri was doing his best to keep his expression calm, but I saw the confusion in his eyes. Although not phrased like it, Dmitri's statement was another question. How did I survive? Why didn't two bullets to the back kill me like they should have, like they _would _have if I had been anyone - anything - else.

"Everyone says I'm lucky," I replied with a shrug. "But they say that, thinking the hard part is behind me. But it isn't. Honestly, coming home is one of the hardest things I've ever been through."

I knew that didn't answer his original question, but I didn't intend to. Dmitri didn't need to know the reason why I could still walk after taking two to the back. He just had to know it was unusual, and that I was aware of it.

* * *

I felt his touch between my shoulders again. His hand was light but warm, as he traced the circular scar on my right scapula.

"Who shot you?" he asked.

"Don't know," I said, not too surprised by the question. I figured it'd pop up eventually. And I decided I could shape the truth in a way safe enough for Dmitri. "I never saw them. You can kind of understand why."

Dmitri chuckled softly, hanging his head. "Ah, yes. I guess that was a stupid question."

"No, it's fine. I wish I knew, too."

"What would you do," he tilted his head. "If you knew? If you saw them again?"

* * *

**A/N: From 2017. Again not canon, and incomplete as I had changed my mind halfway through it, and kind of just wanted to focus on the key dialogue points I wanted for the scene. **** So my original idea here was that Dmitri admitted his love for Mia sometime before the whole Killian thing happens, but I was already working on my ideas for him and them in the future, and ultimately decided that they're mutual pining was more interesting to explore for the time being. I also did not have enough time to build up to this big emotional moment as they hadn't had enough scenes together and I hadn't really implied Dmitri's infatuation with her at that point. So I shelved it, and ultimately never ended up using it. This was also written way back when his name was Antony, but I changed it here so there's less confusion. **


	16. entrée

**Summary: Dmitri meets his new tutor.** **Coincides with Chapter Thirty-Eight of Rebel Columbia.**

* * *

**entrée**

* * *

Rehearsal was in chaos.

Lights being checked, flicking on and off, spinning across the curtains in a slow dance. The ballet master, Berta, was trying to block the movements of the _pas de deux_ across the stage while the production team was racing back and forth, trying to figure out the placement of all the props for various scenes. The children were running wild, their dance instructor late once again, and not enough parents to control them all. The remaining dancers, Dmitri's age and older, lounged about or practiced their sets wherever they could find the room — of which there was not much, without getting in someone's way. The director, Guillame, was in the process of having an aneurysm as he argued with the stage manager over bluetooth.

Amongst it all, Dmitri had found the one spot where he could stretch in peace, stage left, out of the way from everyone else. So far, no one had bothered him, which was how he preferred it, trying to concentrate on his placement for each position. Dmitri was only a cavalier for Roksana, in one of the _pas_, and an understudy to the _danseur noble_; Evgeni was a notorious workaholic, never missed a day of practice or rehearsal (and was often, in fact, several hours early), but a boy could dream…

It was then, in the middle of a pirouette, did Dmitri notice he was being watched.

Normally, this was not uncommon. There were so many people in the hall that everyone was watching everyone else, either out of boredom or trying not to get runover. But this was different.

A blonde girl, perhaps a woman, standing among the seats in a white blouse and blue slacks. She was perhaps only ten feet away, close enough that it was a little startling to notice her now. Her pale eyes were on him, her gaze so piercing Dmitri almost lost his balance before both feet planted on the floor again.

This was someone he didn't know. Someone who wasn't part of a company.

Hoping that she hadn't noticed his near slip, Dmitri put on his best smile, the kind he used when he wanted to put on a good first impression. Which was always. "Hello."

"Uh," The blonde girl blinked. A pressed-lip smile in return, like she was surprised to be addressed. "H-hi,"

"Is something wrong?" Dmitri tilted his head. He wasn't sure how long the girl had been there watching him, and now wondered what had brought her here. It wasn't entirely unusual for passerby to drop in to watch, but Berta never liked an audience before the actual show. It was like taking a peek at the man behind the curtain.

"No, no," the girl shook her head, having to raise her voice to be heard over the noise and hubbub. She stepped closer to the edge of the stage. She had an American accent, something Dmitri noticed only after the fact because she was prettier than he anticipated. Her blonde hair was more silvery than gold, cut short such that it framed her strong jaw and freckled cheekbones, and the way a spotlight hit her from behind had framed her in a soft halo of pale blue light. "Just, um, just watching you. It's really… you're really good."

"Ah, thank you!" Dmitri beamed, not expecting the compliment. A little embarrassed because he didn't think he was actually doing anything of note. It was only practice. He lifted his arms up to stretch, rising to his tip-toes, before dropping again. It was nothing anyone wouldn't see anywhere else, he figured. "They are just warm-ups, but it is good to know I'm doing well. Do you dance?"

The girl snorted, in a sarcastic, self-effacing way. "Oh, ha, no. I don't dance. I'd be awful."

Dmitri reached behind his back, throwing her a curious look. "Have you tried?"

The girl glanced away, then shrugged. "Uh, no. Not really."

Dmitri had to fight not to show any amusement. Still, it seemed funny, to be so sure and yet to never make an attempt. Self-defeating. "Then how would you know if you're awful?" He smiled, hoping she didn't take offense to that. "I'm sure you'd be an excellent dancer."

"Oh, yeah?" The girl threw him a skeptical look, folding her arms. "How do you know?"

"Because you're an athlete," Dmitri said, and when her nose scrunched in confusion, he quickly added, "I can tell by the way you carry yourself. You have good balance, and you're steady on your feet. All you need is to know is how to use them."

He'd been around enough dancers and various other athletes to know them by sight alone. Years of practice and even knowing his own body helped bring an almost instinctive detection for it. Dmitri wasn't really sure how to say that without coming off as more presumptuous than he already had.

"Ha, okay, sure," The girl said in a short little laugh, as if thinking of an inside joke. Clearly she didn't believe him. "I think I'm good, thanks."

Dmitri shrugged. He couldn't really fight her if she was going to dig her heels in. No need to start trouble. And he felt a little awkward for pushing and getting rebuffed. "Well, suit yourself."

After a moment, Dmitri realized her arrival might actually be important, and wondered if he'd been holding her up. "Are you here for something?"

"I'm looking for someone. His name is Dmitri Kasyanenko," The girl replied. "Do you know him?"

Dmitri nearly fell over in shock. She was looking for _him? _And then it hit him: the tutor. Amelia… Amelia Fletcher. Of course! This had to be her. How could he have forgotten so soon? He had only signed up a week ago, and the Stark Industries rep had assured him that they would send someone soon. He couldn't even get good sleep for the first two nights because he was nervous about some unexpected arrival at his home. His last tutor had been less than satisfactory, a fact so prevalent that his mum had fired the man outright. Since then, Dmitri had been in dire straits, hoping to find someone who had a stronger grasp of math and science. And wouldn't mind his accent.

And the cherry on top — she didn't mispronounce his name! Dmitri was going to look _exceedingly _stupid now. He frowned, pulled up. He hoped he wasn't wrong. And that she didn't think he was a moron for saying: "Yes. Wait, you're Amelia, aren't you? Amelia Fletcher?"

She blinked in surprise, arms dropping. "What? How did you know my name?"

"God, how rude of me — I should've realized, said something sooner." But Dmitri was already getting up, shaking his head and cursing himself for being such an idiot. This was _not_ a good first impression, was it? He hoped he could still save it. He jumped off the stage, going right up to Amelia and holding out his hand. "Because _I'm_ Dmitri."

Dmitri already regretted approaching her so quickly. Amelia looked even more intimidating up close. Broad shoulders and a distinctive scar through her right brow added a certain rugged distinction to her appearance, one that said she should not be crossed lightly. Hell, she was taller than Dmitri, and that was not a common feeling. Her eyes were even paler upon closer inspection — not blue, but gray, looking him over with an inscrutable expression before finally accepting his hand. Dmitri restrained the instinct to flinch. Her skin was ice cold. But it was those eyes that had him frozen in place.

"Oh. _Oh_," Her lips parted and Dmitri found himself staring a little too long at them, remembering to focus on her eyes instead, those were properly terrifying. She let go of his hand, and Dmitri was highly aware of the cold void it left in his palm. Only afterwards did he remember how strong her grip had been, the well-defined muscles of her arm. "Well, I m-must have given you a great first impression, then. Um, s-sorry a-about acting like that."

"No, no, I apologize," Dmitri said quickly, laughing a little to show no harm was done. Honestly, he was just glad she hadn't curb-stomped him. All things considered, he might just thank her for that, too. "I should not have pressed you like that. I tend to ask too many questions. I should know by now that not many people appreciate that."

"What? No, asking too many questions is a good thing," Amelia replied almost immediately. She stuffed her hand in her pockets. "Trust me, I do it all the time."

Dmitri blinked, surprised. That was something he'd expect his mum might say. "You do? And you don't get in trouble for it?"

"Ah," Amelia paused, glancing away. "... Well, no. I still get in trouble. But that's only because most people are hiding things they shouldn't be having in the first place."

'Well, that's an interesting method," Dmitri said. _Definitely_ something Mum would say. Certainly he'd feel more brave doing so, if he had the sheer fearlessness of his mother, or looked as strong as Amelia did. Despite the nice clothes, Amelia carried an air that was somewhat prickly, closed off, a silent warning not to breach any wall. And so far, Dmitri hoped he avoided it. He smiled and added in an undertone, leaning in, "In that case, I hope neither one of us has any secrets they should have from each other. "

That got her to smile — a real smile, Dmitri thought, her eyes lighting up, lips pressed together, corners of her mouth quirking up a few degrees. It looked familiar, but Dmitri was sure he'd never met her before. Then where…?

Dmitri put the thought aside, focusing on the good part that his terrible joke actually worked. He certainly had nothing to hide. At least, he didn't think so. Couldn't think of any. No, nope, scratch that. He definitely didn't want Amelia to know the fact that he was already infatuated with her.

_Like a fool. _

"I just got the email an hour ago," Dmitri said, heading towards one of the front row seats. The other dancers used them during rehearsal for storage, each claiming a seat or two for their own belongings. Dmitri found his, a green duffel bag, from which he pulled his phone and turned back to Amelia. "Telling I had been assigned a tutor? Amelia Fletcher, yes, that is you," Dmitri confirmed, pulling up the message again. There had been no picture, which would have been helpful. He would have been far more composed and gracious if he knew just how pretty the tutors were. "I did not think I'd be meeting you so soon. Stark does not waste time, I suppose."

"_No_, he does not," Amelia said, with that soft, mysterious smile again. And that's when it hit him, what her smile reminded him of: the _Mona Lisa_. He had seen it at the Louvre just this last spring. The painting had been smaller than he imagined, disappointing in a way; Amelia was the exact opposite. And her smile was just as powerful. Small, but meaningful, like sharing a secret only the two of them knew. It made his heart skip a beat.

She continued, "I didn't think it'd be so soon, either. But I guess better now than later. So, you need help with math and science, right?"

"Ha-ha." Dmitri shook his head, pushing comparisons to landmark Italian Renaissance portraiture out of his mind and tried to focus on the moment. Thinking about math and science sobered him quickly, and he let out a sarcastic laugh, running a tired hand through his hair. "Oh, yes. You may ask yourself, why does a dancer need to know math and science? But I need my general credits or whatever they're called, to stay here, yes? So, I have to pass this season, and I can stay." He made a face. "I am certain that sounds pathetic to you."

"What? No, it's fine," Amelia smirked, although it didn't seem to be of contempt or pity. More ironic than anything else. "Actually, I'm kind of in the same situation as you."

"Really?" Dmitri was surprised. Before he could ask, a shout rang through the air, the director calling his name, telling him to get to his starting position. He threw Amelia an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I have to go. Rehearsal is for another hour and a half. But I meet you afterwards, yes? There is a library nearby, we can meet there and discuss things further? Does that — does that sound okay?"

"Sounds great," Amelia smiled again, but it was a polite one this time. Not the Mona Lisa. Still good, though. It made his cheeks warm. Dmitri clambered back onto the stage to hide his blush. "Do you need my number? You can text me when you're done."

"Already have it," Dmitri said, raising his phone. She seemed confused, so he added, "Email, remember? But yes, I will let you know. Sorry for the wait. I know you must have better things to do."

They waved good-bye, and as soon as Dmitri turned around, half the gathered corps were all looking at him. A few barely contained smiles, several whispers behind hands. Dmitri could already feel another blush rise to his cheeks. Roksana wriggled her eyebrows playfully at him, and as he came to her side, she leaned in and whispered in Russian, "_Someone's got a crush…!"_

"Oh, shut up," He mumbled, elbowing her but unable to come up with a retort. It was as good as an admission. Guilty as sin. He underestimated how well the other dancers knew him. This was going to be a popular topic, he realized with growing dread. And every time Amelia showed up, it would only rekindle.

And yet, Dmitri couldn't help but throw a glance over his shoulder, at the doorway Amelia disappeared into. He couldn't wait to see her again.

* * *

**Author's Note: Something fluffy because I've got serious writer's block lmao. **


End file.
